


The Next Wounded Soul

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Duckling, Lieutenant Duckling, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, bedsharing ahoy, the angst and self-loathing of killian jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: When a sailor recovering from injuries sustained during the war against the Dark One is tended by one of the noblewomen of the realm, he knows it is not meant to be; he is too hurt, and far too unremarkable for one as good as she. Little does he realize that time cannot heal all wounds, nor can it make him forget the angel who once eased his troubled mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for joining me in this new venture! i wrote the entire thing in 5 days last week-- _never_ has a multichap fic hit me so hard and with such ease. i hope you enjoy it! come talk to me on tumblr: [this-too-too-sullied-flesh](http://this-too-too-sullied-flesh.tumblr.com)

**Part 1: Wounded**

Killian watched with horror and despair as it happened before his very eyes: his brother, resplendent in his captain’s stripes, his eyes flashing as he raised his sword above his head. The sword coming down, slicing neatly through the enemy sailor. Opening his mouth to yell, looking across the deck and meeting Killian’s eyes. The look of utter shock on his face as he was run through, a blade bursting through the placket of his usually neat coat. The quick and violent bloom of blood, his brother looking down while reaching up to touch the blade. _You’ll cut your finger_ , was the foolish thought he sent Liam’s way before his captain-brother fell to his knees, just another body in the carnage taking over their ship. **  
**

He took a step, pausing to slash at a snarling sailor with a wicked-looking dagger in one hand and a cutlass in the other. Making quick work of the enemy, he rushed toward his brother, thinking only to be at his side, he was ever at his side, what would he do without his brother at his side? 

He did not notice the sneer of a new threat, the captain of the enemy vessel. Did not heed the way the man stalked toward him, did not attend to his own safety. 

Before he reached his brother’s still form, he felt a sting at his back, then fire at his arm. He looked down, a sense of near-wonder stealing over him; _where has my hand gone?_ he thought with incredulity. Raising his wrist to the level of his eyes, he watched an arc of blood spurt in the air, framing the enemy captain perfectly as his dark smirk advanced. Raising his right arm, Killian made quick work of the infamous commander of the Dark One’s navy, quite surprised it had been so easy to defeat him. 

He watched with detachment as the smirk fell from the dead man’s lips, felt prickles of nausea tease at his throat as dark flurries assaulted his peripheral vision. His knees buckled, and the last thing he saw as he fell was the swoop of the horizon turning into a blue, cloudless sky.

And then he saw no more.

* * *

“Shh. Shh. It’s all right. Shh.”

_Ah_ , Killian thought with relief followed immediately by annoyance. _My angel attends me once again._ He felt the coolness of a damp cloth at his brow and gritted his teeth. It was the eighth night in as many days that he’d awakened from the terrible dream-memory, the one in which he’d lost far too much for a man of his two and twenty years.

And for all eight of those nights, the angel had been at his bedside, mopping his brow to draw away the fever and the remembrances with her soothing words and gentle voice.

“Go back to sleep, Lieutenant Jones.”

He did not. But he made a good showing of it, giving in to the urge to sigh with relief when her cool fingers brushed hair from his brow. He did his best to relax his features and make his breathing as even as possible, waiting for the moment she would rise from his bedside and go attend the other pathetic souls who were far more receptive to her gentle touch.

Killian did not know much about his angel, except that she was a lady; he sneered every time he thought about it. Ladies and their do good-ness, their frivolous lives filled with dresses and balls and gossip. He had to give her this, however--not many fine ladies would countenance coming into the hospital to attend to the broken as this one seemed intent on doing. He’d been there for over two months, and she had been there nearly every night, tending to the wounded soldiers and sailors pouring in from the kingdom’s war with the Dark One. At first she had been content with reading to the men, penning letters for some, but as more and more were brought in, she had insisted against the sister’s telling her it was not proper, that ladies did not do such things. The stubborn lass had won in the end, eventually being allowed to assist when the nuns cleansed the more gruesome wounds and helping in their binding.

But for all that the fine lady with her golden hair and beautifully arched brows helped the sisters of the Misthaven Hospital, she had not been allowed to attend to Lieutenant Jones, the man with a severed hand and the terrible slash across his back, in addition to the smaller cuts and wounds he’d sustained during the battle against the Dark One’s armada. Honestly, he was surprised he hadn’t died with the amount of blood he’d lost. Luckily ( _unluckily_ , he had insisted the first time the Mother Superior had greeted his opened eyes with a smile) he’d been saved by one of Liam’s faithful crew, his broken body hauled back to the kingdom, his broken heart left with his brother at the bottom of the sea, his broken soul being hailed as a hero. He hated it; killing the bastard who’d slaughtered his brother was _necessary_ , not heroic. 

Killian rarely spoke to anyone, and when he did, it was a surly, cutting remark or a barked invective to leave him be. He was quite aware he was being boorish, but he figured he was allowed. The first time someone had referred to him as a hero, he’d leaned over his bed to reach for a boot to toss, but then he’d remembered that he no longer had a hand to reach with, which had only served to make him angrier. He’d then let loose a torrent of cursing that likely had never been uttered in the presence of the kind sisters of the Misthaven church, much less within the hallowed halls of its hospital. 

From that day forth, only the Mother Superior would attend Lieutenant Jones and his churlish behavior. That worthy woman alone dabbed gingerly at the stitched wound across his back; she was the one who assisted the doctor when time came to examine the sewn flesh at his wrist. She was the one who had fervently whispered a prayer in his ear as tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes when he’d first seen the ugliness of his wound. And for that and that alone, he refrained from being rude to the Mother Superior.

The rest of them could go to the devil, as far as he was concerned. The other sisters who were frightened of him. The ladies of the court who showed up on their missions of mercy to read to the fallen, unable to hide the horror and disgust in their eyes as they did their supposed charitable works, never returning more than once, feeling their duty done.

All except the angel-lady, she of the golden hair and lovely eyebrows with the gentle voice and cool, soothing touch.

“What’s your story?” she asked as she continued to mop his brow. “I know you are not sleeping, Lieutenant. I wonder. Are you the son of an earl, perhaps? The fifth son, never to inherit and finding his fortune at sea?”

He nearly snorted in amusement. Did he have the features and soft hands ( _hand_ ) of some wretched aristocrat? Hardly.

“I like to think that you’re a reformed scoundrel, personally. I think it’s the romantic in me.” 

Killian was amused. She did this, his angel-lady. Held entire conversations with him that were completely one-sided.

Eight nights ago, the first she’d visited him, he had heard the argument. Mother Superior rarely raised her voice, but his eyebrows had shot up and his eyes had popped open when he heard her insistent voice rising above the moans and groans coming from the patients in the ward.

“My lady, you mustn’t. I’ll not have your delicate sensibilities--”

“I’m hardly delicate,” came a sardonic retort. “Let me read to him. He seems...lonely.”

“He has been through a lot, my lady.”

“Haven’t we all,” was the soft rejoinder. Killian closed his eyes when he heard the soft pad of slippered feet heading his way. He nearly cracked his eyes open to see what was transpiring next to him, curiosity over the beautiful angel who kept returning getting the better of him; he heard a shuffle, and the harsh slide of a chair being dragged to his side. A rustling of fabric, the crackle of pages, the delicate clearing of a throat. And then the soft, cultured clip of a sweet voice.

The lady read to him. For hours. Until her voice grew hoarse, and on into the night.

He never fell asleep that first night, but it was the first time in ages that he felt at peace.

It made him angry. He did not wish to be at peace; his brother was dead, and his hand was gone. And worse--the Dark One was still out there, his agents of evil killing other brothers and taking other limbs.

He did marvel at the courage of the golden lady once she’d left. She seemed far too young to truly understand the horrors he’d seen, but he knew looks could be deceiving. There was a certain conviction in her voice that made her seem older than her years; perhaps he had been too quick to rush to judgment simply because her face glowed with an ethereal light, her beauty seeming out of place amongst the wretched. How many times had he himself been underestimated because of his face?

The next night, it was the same.

The third night, the lady was interrupted ten minutes into her reading to him when another poor, battered soul was rushed in, his screams rending the air and causing a general feeling of unrest amongst the other patients, Killian the most of all.

“Not my leg! Please, not my leg!”

He couldn’t help it, he’d opened his eyes and watched as a screen was erected around the man; the lady closed her book and stood, lifting her skirts to rush to aid the nuns. Killian could not see what was happening, but he knew. Could tell by the unabated screams, by the agony filling his ears and rattling around in his brainbox.

He had watched as his golden angel-lady had stepped away from the screen, her hand at her chest and her eyes closed in despair. There was an artful spray of blood across the white apron she wore; he wanted to get up from his bed and tear it from her body, to toss it into a bin and burn the offensive thing. Ladies like her ought not be exposed to such horror; she was meant for the beautiful, easy things in life. She was too strong, too _good_ for this place. He wanted to demand that she leave and never come back.

When she’d returned to his side hours later, he’d turned on his side and refused to give her his attention.

_You ought not be here,_ he told her silently.

But of course, she could not obey his entreaty if she could not hear it. He had the sneaking suspicion that if she could, she’d simply smile and assure him that nothing could keep her away.

She returned the following night, of course.

And the next.

He was starting to wonder if he would see her every night.

He rather hoped so. And fervently wished she’d see some sense and cease coming to this place of death and pain. Did she not have a man in her life, someone to prevent her from exposing herself to such ugly things? Did she not have parents? Then he chastised himself, knowing that she was capable of making her own decisions, and for whatever reason--she had decided to ease his suffering.

He knew she was unmarried. It was the first thing he’d looked at the first time he’d laid eyes on her--after being momentarily flummoxed by the angelic features arranged so perfectly on her face--that she wore no ring on her finger.

That was another thing he disdained about the aristocracy. What idiots those men were, that none had done their best to claim the right to such a woman! Were he one of the vaunted nobility, he would spend every hour of every day wooing the angel that deigned to live among them. He knew none could possibly be worthy of her, but that would hardly stop him, were he given leave to pay his addresses. It was a good thing he wasn’t one of them, anyway; he’d never be good enough for one such as she, even if he actually _was_ the son of an earl.

“Perhaps you were a thief, hmm? Nimble and quick. I like that. You used your charm to abscond with ladies’ jewels, and you were caught in the act. You were given the choice: gaol, or defend Her Majesty’s interests at sea. Or, oh! A pirate! Perhaps you’re a pirate!” The laughter in her voice nearly undid him; as it was, he had a hell of a time trying to prevent his smile from overtaking the benign expression he attempted to keep on his face as he lay there with closed eyes. Then, softly “No. Not a pirate, perhaps. I think you’re too honorable for that.”

Her voice was so gentle, so _lovely_ that he nearly opened his eyes and reached out--to feel her face, to feel her sincerity. But again, he remembered that he had no hand to reach with, and the sorrow of it was like a dense fog rolling in, clouding over everything quickly and without warning.

“Oh, what have I done?” the angel whispered. “Such a deep scowl. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Please do not be offended. I--I merely wish to ease your burdens.” He felt like an ass. A melancholy, repulsive ass.

_I’m not fit to be near one such as you_ , he thought sadly. 

When she rose silently and left him, he did not blame her. He was quite certain he’d seen and heard the last of his angel-lady.

Killian was, of course, wrong. 

_Liam_ , he thought with desperation. _I have to get to Liam_.

The enemy captain stepped in front of him. Killian raised his arm, saw his missing hand and raised the other arm, only this time the evil man slashed through his right wrist as well, and he--

“Lieutenant,” the angel called softly. Fingers stroked feather-light at either side of his brow. “Lieutenant.”

_No. Get away from here, you’ll lose your hands as well!_

Killian struggled. The captain advanced. The angel continued to call to him.

“No!” 

He pushed the captain away, feeling helpless anger and frustration surge through his gut and up his throat. 

“My lady!” Gasping voices raised in outrage assaulted his ears as a flurry of activity sounded off to his left.

Killian popped his eyes open, his chest heaving, his neck damp with sweat. He looked around frantically, realizing he’d been having the dream again.

And his heart sank down into his gut when he saw his angel on the floor at the side of his bed. 

The first time his eyes ever met hers, it was to see pain and surprise reflected at him. 

He’d pushed her away--savagely, if his dream was any indication.

He was the worst sort of bastard. A true scoundrel; a demon wearing a man’s skin. Well, most of a man, anyway.

“Your eyes are blue,” was the only thing the angel said to him. Then quick as a flash, the nuns rushed to her side, picking her up and dusting her off. More than one shot him a look full of condemnation; he did not blame them one bit.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as they led the lady away, his apology unheard and unheeded.

Now he was _certain_ she would never return.

He laid back on his bed, closing his eyes and praying the nightmare would for once be kind and not assault his sleep. He needed rum, ale; something. The oblivion found at the bottom of a bottle. 

Naturally, the nightmare was unobliging. It returned with full force, the evil captain that took his hand mocking him harder, snarling taunts aimed at his person, his brother. 

And the angel. Killian could feel her presence, could sense her hatred clawing at him as he tried to survive. _Please_ , he pleaded as he fought for his life. I _would never hurt you!_

_You already did,_ she sneered in return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments, guys! this one's shorter, and not quite so angsty???? i think????

**Part 1: Wounded**

**ii.**

Unlike the dream, his golden angel had not returned the following night, and it was then that Killian knew true despair, even as he recognized that it was for the best. Naturally, he would be the one to drive the determined young angel from what seemed to be her true calling.  


He did not sleep for two days. Ever since he’d awakened from the worst version of the nightmare he’d had yet, he’d been afraid to return to it. The way the angel in his dream had been so dark, so unforgiving--it was not something he wished to experience ever again, real or no.  


For months now, he’d been trying not to fall into a deep pit of sorrow and self-pity, the gentle sisters so kindly insistent that he _must_ live that he felt obligated to return their kindness by not dying. There had been times when he’d almost confided in the Mother Superior, told her of his brother, of the life he’d lived in indentured servitude before joining the royal navy. Of his father’s betrayal, of his mother’s death in childbirth when he was but four years of age. But no; he would not burden the kind woman with his tale of woe. He chose to refrain from telling her any details of his life--the only kindness he had to give in return. 

And in all that time, he’d been very close to stepping over the precipice of what remained of his sanity--all he had to do was think of Liam, remember some happy time from before, and he would delve into melancholy. And every time, someone was there to pull him from it--first the Mother Superior, and now his angel.  


But that would not happen again. No, he’d seen to that, hadn’t he? Lashing out in his sleep, pushing away the only good thing in his life, quite literally. Seeing his lovely angel-lady sprawled out on the ground--the look of shocked surprise marring her delicate features--had plunged him into a despair even deeper than that which had taken over the moment he’d realized that he was alive and Liam was dead.

Which was why he could not understand the cheery words that greeted him the following night as he lay there with his eyes closed, silently willing someone or something to take away his misery.

“I’ve brought you a gift.”

He squeezed his eyes tighter to resist the urge to open them. Surely, he was hearing the only thing he wished to hear--her sweet voice. Perhaps madness had finally claimed him, or perhaps, against all odds, he’d finally died and was being greeted by his guardian angel, returned to heaven after tending to him on earth.

“I’ll leave it on your bedside table here, for when I leave and you stop feigning sleep.” The amusement in her tone was like a balm to his aching soul, dry and droll though it was; he wondered what mischievous god had given an angel such a wry sense of humor. 

And then thoughts of heaven were redefined when he got a whiff of something truly unearthly--it reminded him of long-gone days spent in his mother’s kitchen as she sat him on the counter top, her rough hands kneading into dough as she laughingly told him tales of nymphs playing under the waves while the king of the sea looked on. Mother used to allow him to spread the chocolate bits across the rolled dough, the special treat quite dear and only for the days when Father returned from wherever it was he’d sailed to, when he was still returning, that is. 

He felt a brush at his cheek, and a soft breath at his ear. He thought to himself that under a different set of circumstances--perhaps if their acquaintance had been of longer duration, or were they completely different people--that he might have turned into her touch, his own mouth brushing against her soft skin.

“It’s a chocolate croissant. I haven’t enough for everyone, so you must keep this a secret between the two of us. My cook offers the softest, most delectable treats in the kingdom,” she whispered. “But the secret to the crunch is cinnamon and sugar painted across the top with butter.” He caught a hint of something fresh and verdant, like flowers coming to life after a terrible storm. Just as quick, she was gone, and when Killian opened his eyes after she’d gone, he felt regret that he had been unable to offer simple thanks.

Especially when he enjoyed the croissant the next morning; he wished to tell his angel that she was wrong--her cook was not the one offering the softest and most delectable treats in the kingdom. That honor fell to her, the golden one who seemed determined to bring him out of the despair of his own making.

The next night, he was unsurprised at her return. He’d resigned himself to its constancy even as he looked forward to it; if she was going to be this stubborn, well. He could hardly help her tenacity, and he’d put up with whatever she wished to bring him next.

“My father wishes me to marry.”

He took it back. That was something he did _not_ wish to hear.

“I told him I was far too young to consider something like that; he scoffed in that ‘I know better’ way of fathers, informing me, “ and here her voice deepened--a comical impression of her own father, he was quite sure. “Young lady, your mother and I married when she was eighteen, so you’ve had an entire two years over her.’ Well, this is hardly our first disagreement on it. We had a row, Mother had to intervene. She drew a bow on us; it was quite the spectacle.” 

Killian had to grin at that; the thought of his angel facing her probable equally-angelic mother at the point of an arrow was far too amusing to not. When she gasped, his smile fell; _what now?_

“I _knew_ you were listening.”

With a silent sigh, he opened his eyes.

“There you are,” she smiled, and in the moment he met her clear, grey-green gaze, he knew that he was gone.

A wretched and broken soul such as he had fallen in love with an angel.

And he didn’t even know her name.

Despite the momentous occasion--both his realizations and the fact that he had finally engaged in their rather one-sided relationship--his angel acted nonchalant, sitting at his side and picking up the conversation as if they’d never stopped.

“Anyway, I do not wish to marry. There are too many things I wish to do first, too much I long to see.”

“Then why do you tarry at my side?” he asked, surprising himself with the strength of his voice, hoarse though it might be with disuse. He realized that he hadn’t spoken to another individual in quite some time. 

Nonplussed, the golden angel stifled her quick smile, looking him right in the eye as she shrugged and said, “Perhaps I can’t resist a handsome face.”

That made him toss his head back with laughter, which caused some strain in the wound at his back. Miraculous, really, how he’d temporarily forgotten his injuries when in the presence of his angel. Wincing, he shifted his shoulders, attempting to find a more comfortable position on the bed.

“Oh! Here, allow me,” the angel said, rising from her chair and bending over to rearrange his pillows for him. He caught her scent again--orange blossoms, he decided, and clover; was it her hair, or did she have an apothecary make her an unusual blend of perfume?--and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the curtain of her hair tickled his cheeks. He tried to ignore how her breasts brushed against him briefly; it would not do to become aroused by an angel sent from heaven to deliver him from--well, everything.

“There,” she said, pleased, seating herself once again, much to his relief. Her nearness was too intoxicating, too good; he feared he could lose himself in it, in her. And that would not do.

He would not do that to her.

In fact, he needed her to go. He did not want to become reliant on her sweet nature, and he certainly did not want to hurt her again. He knew _that_ was inevitable.

“What is your name?” he asked, mentally kicking himself for the question. He forgot sometimes that she was a _lady_ , genteel and gentle, raised in a world he disdained. A world in which there were rules, one being that gentlemen waited to be introduced to a lady--he certainly did not ask for her name. He’d had the rules drilled into him upon entering the royal service, along with the strict warning that despite his being given an officer’s commission and that he was to act a gentleman at all times, he was not a gentleman by birth. 

He was not allowed to want the things gentlemen wanted. He knew that, and yet.

A soft and genuine smile lit her face even as she lifted one brow. She dampened her amusement, putting a solemn expression on her face as she held out her right hand. Momentarily confused, Killian realized she was reaching for his hand. With no little trepidation, his eyes darted briefly to his left before shyly holding out his right arm, his remaining hand.

“I’m Emma.”

He knew that she already knew he was a lieutenant, and a Jones. So he decided to follow her lead, introducing himself by name. “I’m Killian.”

“A pleasure.”

“I assure you, Lady Emma. The pleasure is all mine.”

“Emma. It’s just Emma,” she said softly, looking away briefly before returning his broad grin.

“You’re hardly _just_ anything, Emma,” he murmured. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to tom waits and "i hope i don't fall in love with you" for this chapter; come say hi to me on tumblr! or just yell at me in the comments, that's cool, too

“Killian,” Emma the angel laughed. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Weeks and weeks had passed, and during that time, Killian looked up at every soft footstep, tamping down his enthusiasm when he saw a flash of her golden hair and not attempting to hide his disappointment when it wasn’t her. Each night that she was not there, his heart cracked that much more, and each night when she did show it healed over again, making him realize that there really were some things that made life worth living.

“What?” he said, tapping his bottom lip in a sorry attempt to hide his overlarge grin. “You invented a tale of woe for me. It is now on me to return the favor. Let’s see.” He brought both arms up and tucked them behind his head, grimacing only slightly at the unfamiliar feeling of the bandage-wrapped wrist lying against his neck. “You are...the only daughter of an duke, a future duchess-in-her-own-right, set to inherit the entire duchy and its vast entailment. Men clamor for your attentions and you disdain them all, secretly wishing for a great love to sweep you off of your dainty feet. But that is not enough for you--you long for adventure, and you come down here to absorb the stories of us sad bastards sunk to our lowest point as a means to remind yourself that marrying some whey-faced tight-arse is not necessarily the worst thing in the world.”

“Killian,” she intoned, but the smile in her eyes belied the attempted warning in her voice.

“No, that’s not quite right. You’d never marry a tight-arse. Hmm, let me think. You’re a faerie queen, disguising her true face with one of such indescribable beauty that us mere human-folk would never dare question your true nature, relying on the fact that we’re all so struck by your unearthly, ethereal eyes and the delicate curve of your lips that we’d never guess the real reason you’re here: to enslave us all to do your bidding. Only you’ve never realized that some of us would go most willingly.”

Emma threw her head back in laughter and Killian decided then and there that as long as he remained on this earth, he would use every chance afforded to make her laugh in such a way--so unrestrained, so full of joy. When her laughter subsided into glorious smiles, she met his eye and his breath caught at the sparkle there, or, more accurately--at the added something he saw gleaming in the depths of her gaze. He knew not what it was, but he knew that he liked it.

Then she wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips into a displeased pout. “Faerie? I met a faerie once. They’re all so devious.”

“Mermaid? I’ve heard the tales of jeweled cuffs granting legs to the merfolk in exchange for something dear. What did you trade to get your legs, Emma?”

“Mermaids sing men to their doom. I’m trying to help you from it, remember?”

 _And you might even succeed, darling_ , he wished to say aloud, but instead he gave a noncommittal hum in response. Then he pretended to think it over a moment, but as it was a thought that had plagued him from the moment her fingers had first brushed his brow, he merely needed to keep from blurting the word that had been rollicking around in his brain for the four months that she’d been attending him.

“An angel, then.”

Emma raised a solitary brow and seemed to think it over. She turned her lips down and nodded several times before curling the corner of her mouth knowingly.

“You once called me an angel in your sleep.”

_Damn, caught._

“I swear, you had wings that first night you were here.”

“How would you know? You refused to look upon me for ages.”

“I--” The moment of levity had suddenly grown heavy. Killian avoided Emma’s keen gaze, turning toward the wall and away from her inquisitive eyes. How could he tell her why? She was an astute woman, she _must_ know. He had no wish to look upon himself, much less look at the way others saw him. He was grotesque, no longer whole, and never would be again. The truth was--Killian had begun to fall in love with his angel the moment he first heard her voice. He knew she was beautiful before he’d opened his eyes to see her across the ward, her light and vitality shining in a place full of pain and suffering. She was truly the savior of all of these men and women who were dying or near death, bringing something to them that they all needed.

“Hope,” he muttered to the wall, aware he’d spoken aloud and not caring. Yes, Emma was a symbol of hope for him. Even if he, himself, did not have any.

What hope was there for a man who’d lost so much?

“That’s my mother’s favorite word,” Emma chuckled darkly. The change in her voice made him whip his neck around to face her once again. He hated the frown line that appeared between her brows, hated the sudden bitter turn to her voice.

“I’d expect nothing less from the mother of an angel.” She laughed at that, but it was a forced laugh, and he wanted to pinch himself for bringing darkness to her light, unwitting as it had been. 

“She...means well. She’d enjoy you, that’s for sure. She’s always had a soft spot for charming scoundrels down on their luck.”

“For shame, mocking the afflicted.” He pulled his left arm out and waved it in front of her like a fencing master teasing a student. 

“Afflicted,” she scoffed, sitting back and crossing her arms across her chest. “In the head, perhaps.”

“You’ve a mighty fine way of rendering a man to nothing, my lady.”

She scowled at the address. “I thought I told you that it’s just Emma.”

“And I thought I told you that you’re hardly _just_ anything, _my lady_.”

Abruptly, she stood and began pacing, her arms still across her chest. He was an arse, a fucking brigand. Never again would he tease her so. _Come back, my angel. Come back to me; I did not mean it. Say the word and I shall fall on my own sword for you. Just come back and grace me with your smile and your benevolence. Please. Before I allow myself to drown in this misery of my own making._

“Emma, then,” he said softly, roughly; he coughed in an attempt to clear the sudden emotion from his throat. His declaration was no less true for its silence. He already knew he was infatuated with her; now he suspected he’d do anything foolish to win her favor. Anything to see her smile once again.

“Do you…” She trailed away, not quite meeting his eye as she paused her pacing. She took a deep breath, and he silently willed her to confide in him, to ask him whatever it was that was clearly on her mind.

 _This is madness_ , he told himself. How could he have allowed this easy intimacy? Obviously, Lady Emma was a young woman of note--the exquisite quality of her gown and the way she held herself told him that she came from affluence and influence. She was a sensitive woman, caring of others but uncaring of her own reputation, lest she would not spend so much time with people like him. It could not have been easy for her to continue to visit the hospital, tending to the wounded and bringing sympathy (and dare he say it, hope) to those most in need. Truly, his lady-angel was meant for something better than this...he found he could not put a word to it. Whatever it was they shared every time she came over to see him. 

For she was now spending the bulk of her time in his presence. Every night she was there, she visited most of the beds, but she saved his for last, as if the old adage about the best was true. On the nights she did not visit he despaired, trying to convince himself that it was better if she did not return, that he could not allow her to form any sort of emotional attachment to him.

Then he would spend hours disgusted with his own presumption, thinking that there was not a chance in hell that the most beautiful woman in all of the realms had any sort of preference for his surly, one-handed company. That she behaved in her unguarded manner with any of the other sailors and soldiers. That there was nothing in the way her smile turned loose and easy with him, instead of the somewhat practiced curl of her lips that she reserved for the others.

Emma (he really ought to insist on adding the honorific of “Lady” to her name, but since she seemed so distressed whenever he addressed her as anything else, he found that he was incapable of not doing as she asked) stopped her pacing and took a hesitant step toward his bed, seating herself in the chair once again and making a show of arranging her skirts about her knees. He wanted to reach out and still her hands, to assure her that anything she wished to ask, he would do his best to answer. But he simply waited, knowing that she would get there in her own time.

That did not stop him from wondering with a burning sort of curiosity what it was that seemed to overset her so.

“Do you think me odd for coming here so often?”

“Oh, you’re an odd one, to be sure,” he smiled, teasing her without thinking. Emma’s face fell, and he immediately regretted his hasty attempts at levity. “No! Emma, no. I do not think it odd in the slightest.” He leaned over, propping up on his left elbow and reaching out with his hand to brush his fingers at her sleeve. “I think you are an angel, remember?” She smiled at him, but it hurt his heart that the smile did not reach her eyes. Did she think herself an oddity? Did someone make her feel _bad_ for coming here?

“Emma.” He gave into the temptation to touch her hand, though he made the contact brief. He needed to make her feel better, not give in to his own selfish desires. “I think it damned near miraculous that you come here night after night, bringing us sorry bastards a small piece of happiness. I’ve never met one such as you. It almost makes me wonder…” But he did not finish the thought. Damn; he had no right to wonder about her!

“Wonder what?” she asked softly, leaning toward him. Perhaps her action was unintentional, but he caught his breath at her nearness; he averted his eyes, suddenly feeling like a blackguard for focusing on the way the neckline of her gown lowered slightly, revealing a mole just below her collarbone. 

“Nothing, my lady.” They both winced at the appellation. “Emma,” he quickly amended. “It is nothing, Emma.”

“Come now,” she said, her voice clipped and insistent. She met his eyes and smirked; it was all he could do to keep from closing the distance between them and capturing her lips with his own to see what the smirk of an angel tasted like. Salty and sweet, he suspected. “Tell me. I assure you, there’s nothing interesting about me. I’m quite an open book; what you see,” and here she spread her arms out, his fanciful notions imagining the faint outline of wings spreading behind her, “is what you get. What could you possibly wonder about me?”

_Who are you? Why do you spend so much time on a worthless lout like me? Why do you single me out? Why is there such sadness in your eyes?_

_If we meet in another life, will I still love you with this same desperation? Would I be a better man for you?_

Instead, he settled for: 

“Why do you come here, night after night? Do you not have balls and dinner parties to attend?” He did his best to sound charming and flirtatious, to tease her into easing whatever it was that made her seem so lost. And to keep from asking her the things he _really_ wished to know.

She seemed to think on that for moment, sitting back in her chair with a huff. He was glad she was no longer near enough for him to smell the scent of her; she was too soft, too intoxicating. He was afraid the longer she was close to him, the higher the likelihood he’d do something daft and rash. Like caress her face.

Or kiss her.

“I…” She cleared her throat and smiled; he found himself mesmerized by the wry twist of her lips. “I’m afraid I’m a coward, lieutenant.”

“Oh?” He lifted his eyebrow, waiting to hear the ways in which this woman thought herself anything less than perfect.

“I’m running from my obligations,” she continued, fidgeting with her skirts before taking a deep breath. “It is expected of me to attend functions at court, but they make me uncomfortable. The scrutiny, the expectations of my parents. They know I escape, but since I come home every time, they do not ask where it is I go every night, though I believe my mother knows.” She sighed heavily, slumping in her chair. It was endearing;for one moment, Killian could imagine what she must have looked like as a young child during tutelage on how to behave like a lady, petulant and longing to be outside. “I know that one of these days, I shall have to do my duty, but…” She trailed off, and he suddenly did not wish for her to continue. 

He knew what the expectations of a nobly born woman were, and he feared he could not bear thinking about it, much less hearing it from Emma’s lips. 

Marriage. To a gentleman. A lord, perhaps a duke. 

“Duty,” he muttered with scorn. Emma looked up, startled, her eyes wide as they met his. 

“Yes,” she sighed. “But see, I feel it a duty of--those in my station-- to see to the poor and wretched, so if Mother ever asked, I would tell her--”

“That nightly, you read to the poorest, wretchedest soul you’ve ever encountered,” he finished for her, his voice light but his heart heavy as he spoke the words aloud. 

“Killian,” she laughed, a delightful flush overtaking her cheeks. “That is not what I meant.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true, Emma.”

“I do not think you poor or wretched,” she said, an urgency in her voice that spoke volumes to him. She leaned forward and rested her hand on his left sleeve, squeezing gently as she met his eyes. She did not wish for him to think she saw him that way, he could feel it.

Again, he asked himself how he could have let it get to this.

_Because I was in it before I could stop myself._

He needed to get away from her. He could no longer allow this to continue. Emma had a duty to perform; she said so herself. She would one day marry, and the man she would marry would be perfect in every way. He had to be. Killian did not think he could stomach the thought that any man lucky enough to be with her would be anything but.

So, he began the painful process of drawing away from the only light in his life. He only hoped she would forgive him with time, even if they never saw one another again. She was young; she would recover in no time.

“My lady,” he said, his voice somewhat formal. He reached for her hand but pulled back before it could touch her again; even though he would be leaving soon, he had no wish to cause her any harm. “I am a felled and failed lieutenant with a slash on his back. I’ve not a farthing to my name, and no place to call home. No family. I think ‘poor’ and ‘wretched’ are apt descriptors for one such as me. Look, I do not even have a hand anymore.” He lifted his arm and waved it at her again, making her laugh. It was a lonely, watery sound; he felt like an ass for doing that to her.

“I think you’re more.”

Ah, the sweetest words ever uttered, surely. They tore through him like a cutlass to the wrist.

“But perhaps…” He looked up at the thoughtful tone in her voice, wanting to ask what had put a sudden gleam in her eyes. “Geppetto!”

“Bless you?”

“No,” she laughed, her smiles once again causing a worrisome flutter in his chest. “He is a carpenter. He used to find favor with my father by carving toys for me when I was a little girl. I shall commission a hand for you! I must send someone to him immediately.”

“It’s the middle of the night, my lady.”

“Would you please stop ‘my lady’-ing me?” she demanded, the stern turn of her voice belied by the continued gleam in her eye. “I know what time it is. I meant tomorrow. I think we’ll have a new hand for you within the fortnight! Oh! I’m sorry, I should have asked. Does...does it bother you?” The uncertainty in her voice made him wish to enfold her in his arms, to soothe the worry he saw buried between her brows with a brush from his lips. He shook his head, earning himself another bright smile and another round of distress because of the way it made him fill with such light, lovely sensations.

As Emma continued to happily make plans for his new hand, he simply murmured noncommittal responses and began to make plans for how and when to take his leave. He knew his wounds were nearly healed, the external ones, anyway; he knew the other wounds--losing his brother, and then leaving Emma, well. Those would take much longer to heal over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 1: Wounded**

**iv.**

Emma did not return for several nights. Killian tried to tell himself that it was for the best, that perhaps she, too, was starting to see the folly of their continued acquaintance. He once again retreated into the surly bastard he’d been when they’d met, refusing any care from the sisters and turning the doctor away when he came to check on his wrist and back. And all the while, he decided how to best go about his life.

He knew returning to the navy was out of the question; how could they use a one-handed half of a man in the battle against the Dark One?

The Dark One.

His thoughts grew black. He’d yet to meet the ugly bastard, but as he remembered Liam’s laughing smile, broad-shouldered confidence, and commanding voice, he knew that there was only one logical thing to do with the rest of his life.

Kill the imp who’d taken everything from him.

“Oh, are we back to that fearsome scowl again?”

His heart leapt at the sound of Emma’s voice, then beat a quick-paced cadence at the archness in it. Without meaning to, he turned to her and grinned; her sunny, answering smile filled him with such an exuberant force of sensation that it burned a path down to his toes. Love, unambiguous and unasked-for: that was the feeling.

“Much better,” she grinned, her approval conveyed by another beaming smile that assuaged the heaviness of his spirit. 

“You were gone a while.”

“I know.” She frowned; he wanted to rub the worry from her brow. “I wanted to come, but…”

“Duty?” he guessed. Her nod affirmed it. “Well.” His next words needed to be said, awful as he knew they’d be. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I shall be leaving soon, and--”

“Leaving?” He knew he did not imagine the panic twisting her voice and fair features into something that tugged at his soul. “But…”

“It is time, my--Emma,” he amended. She seemed at a loss, a feeling with which he could identify.

“But you _cannot_ leave yet,” she whispered, sitting heavily at the chair at his side. He noticed then that she had a velvet-wrapped bundle in her hands, the knap of the fabric being crushed by her fingers. She looked up at him, the sorrow in her eyes apparent. “Will you return to the sea?”

“Perhaps,” he said, aware he was being vague but not wishing to leave her any means to come and find him. She needed to remain, to do her duty and find a perfect gentleman who would treat her like a queen. Even as he acknowledged the inevitability of his thoughts, he vowed he would kill any man who did not do right by her.

“Well.” Emma seemed at a loss, sitting back in the chair, still absently clutching the bundle in her hands. He reached out with his arm, indicating the velvet-wrapped package with a question in his eyes. “Oh! I forgot.” She smiled coyly before biting at her lip; he had to stifle a groan as he watched her teeth pressing into the delectable, rose-tinted flesh of her mouth.

“Sit up.” Killian rushed to oblige, shifting in the bed until he was resting against the headboard, his pillow bunched up behind his back. “Geppetto works quickly.” He watched as she unwrapped the velvet, revealing a complicated-looking contraption made of several straps of leather and buckles. With questioning eyes, he looked at her, noticing the expectant anticipation in her gaze.

“It’s a brace for your new hand,” she explained softly. 

“Oh,” was all he said. He felt his heart race. She’d done this for him. For he, an unworthy cad.

“May I?” She flicked her wrist, indicating his left arm. Swallowing heavily, he merely nodded.

Emma had never been present when the doctor or the Mother Superior had tended to his wrist. He suddenly felt vulnerable, even more so than when he’d awakened from any of his continuing nightmares, more than at any point in his miserable life. And now here was his glorious angel, wanting to see that part of him that he himself had no wish to look upon.

“I asked the doctor. He said he thought it a fine idea, that you’re all healed up, so--” She ceased rambling, again biting her lip but this time with worry. “I’ll just--” She seemed to give up on speaking, instead moving to action, which he noticed was something that seemed very much an Emma thing to do. With the leather contraption still sitting across her lap, she scooted her chair forward and reached for his left arm, her fingers quick as she pulled the sleeve of his shirt away from the bandaged end of his wrist. He held his breath as her fingers touched his bare skin; mesmerized, he watched as Emma slowly unwrapped the linen strips covering his arm, amazed once again at her indomitable will. 

When the last layer was peeled away, she set the bandages aside, one hand still holding onto his wrist. She held his arm up and looked at the blunted end, her eyes assessing as he looked away.

“‘Tis ugly, I know,” he muttered.

“Killian,” she chided. “It has healed beautifully. Geppetto says he suspects it will chafe wearing this at first, but if you massage the skin nightly, it will callous over with time.”

“Will you massage it for me, then?” he teased, turning back to her and cursing himself the moment the flirtatious words left his mouth. She looked up, a knowing smile curling her lip.

“What a thing to say.”

“I’ll warrant the gentlemen with which you keep company never say such things.”

“It’s usually the other way around,” she retorted. Before he could reply to that astonishing statement, Emma rested his arm at his side and reached for the contraption in her lap. Then, inexplicably, she blushed furiously.

“What is it?” he asked gently, wondering if the sudden flirtatious turn of their repartee had flustered her. He found the prospect delightful.

“I--it goes under your shirt, Killian.”

“Ah.”

“So I’ll simply show you how it works, and then I’ll go--”

“No,” he said quickly, reaching out with his left arm and pressing it against her knees to prevent her from going anywhere. “That is, if you don’t mind helping a man out--”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I do not mind at all.”

Killian had been in the hospital for nearly six months. In his time there, he’d been poked, prodded, wrapped and unwrapped, changed, bathed, and had his wounds examined time and time again by any number of strangers. But never Emma. It was a boundary that the sisters had felt necessary in deference to her status; it was hardly appropriate for a lady to see a man in any state of undress and possibly worse for her to touch such sullied flesh. She did not seem to mind the blood and other bodily functions that were a part of being in a hospital, did not appear fazed or squeamish at the reality of war. He knew she occasionally helped with dressing wounds with the others, but never him. He wouldn’t allow it. 

So as he shrugged out of the shirt he wore, it was with no small amount of trepidation. He wasn’t certain whether his hesitation stemmed from his wish to keep her as far from the ugly things in life as possible, or whether he was simply overly aware of what they were doing. It was the most intimate situation he’d ever found himself in, including the few times he’d lain with women. 

Perhaps it was because he’d never felt anything more for those women than a fleeting lust. With Emma, well--there was lust, certainly, but it was more than that. Simmering desire; longing. Love, in all its unrequited anguish. He knew she cared for him, a bit, like any angel cares for the poor souls it is tasked with soothing. He also knew he could not allow her to fall further.

But this.

He felt unaccountably shy as he sat there, naked from the waist up. Exposed, he was exposed, the history of his life as a sailor on full view, like an ugly painting presented for her innocent gaze to take in and assess. The ridiculous tattoo of a heart and anchor that he and several of the crew had gotten one drunken night soon after he’d joined, the letters “JR” written in script across the stock. Several silvery, healed-over scars across his flesh, though the cruel, childhood lash-marks on his back were now likely overwritten by his new sword wound.

“Here,” Emma said, her voice too-loud in the sudden awkward silence. He nodded, watching quietly as she grasped his arm and fitted the brace over his wrist. He grimaced as she slid it into place, turning his wrist and feeling the strangeness of having something there once again. Funny, how he’d somehow gotten used to his hand not being there. Now he had a whole new thing to get used to. 

“It...it goes like this,” Emma said. He looked up, startled at how close she was. 

He still had his nightmares; those had not abated with time and in fact grew somewhat worse. He’d resigned himself to their inevitability, having accepted months before that he would no longer have a full night’s sleep, possibly for the rest of his life. The thing he had not yet come to accept was that when he left, there would no longer be the possibility of Emma waking him from the terrible dreams, her sweet scent and cool fingers brushing at his temples and easing him from the nightmare of his memories.

So when she leaned close, her cool fingers brushing along his shoulder as she fastened the leather straps in place, he decided that just this once, he would revel in her proximity. He was fully awake, no dregs of terrible remembrances plaguing the periphery of his mind as he struggled to consciousness, struggled toward her light. No Liam dying again and again before his mind’s eye. No demon version of Emma taunting him. No; all that was before him was his beautiful angel-savior, touching his bare flesh, her breath soft at his ear (was her breathing hitched? Was her heart racing as well?) as escaped strands of her hair tickled his skin. He wondered what she would do were he to give into the urge to run his nose above the neckline of her gown. Instead, he breathed deep, the smell of warm woman filling his mind with what he hoped would be enough memory to carry him through what he needed to do.

Which was leave. Tonight; it would be tonight. It _must_ be tonight. She might try to change his mind, convince him to stay; he did not think he had the fortitude to withstand an onslaught like Emma pleading with him not to leave. 

“There,” she said softly to his neck as he heard the click of a buckle. Emma tugged on the contraption once, twice, before nodding to herself with satisfaction. “That ought to hold. I’ll check on it tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, when I bring your new hand. Geppetto said you ought to get used to the brace first before adding any additional weight, anyway.”

He smiled, utterly unable to reply. Sorrow gripped his heart; _will you miss me, my angel?_

_I’ll think of you every day I’m gone._

“Thank you,” he said instead.

“It was nothing,” she said, smiling warmly. She patted his arm twice, sitting back but not removing her touch. He closed his eyes in pleasure; the feeling of her cool skin against his heated flesh was so wonderful, so lovely, that he regretted what he needed to do, knowing that he’d never feel that touch again.

“Emma,” he said softly. For the first time in their acquaintance, he reached out to touch her bare skin with his entire hand. He grasped her hand in his, squeezing lightly, his touch lingering as he met the question in her eyes with a gentle, broken-hearted smile. “It’s not nothing. I mean it. I am grateful for all you have done.” _I am grateful for you._ Her head cocked to the side, puzzled as she smiled back at him.

“I’ll be back in two days, you know,” she said carefully. He nodded; could she sense the good-bye in his words? “With your new hand.”

He let go of her.

“Take care, my lady.”

He closed his eyes, listening to her steady footsteps as she walked away and out of his life altogether.

* * *

By the time the Mother Superior made her rounds in the morning, Killian’s bed was empty, his clothes and boots gone. He’d left nothing behind; the bed was made, the corners tighter than even the nuns could make it--the only indication that a man of the military had ever been there. Mother Superior was unsurprised; she wished him well, turning with a sigh and a prayer for the next wounded soul.

**End Part 1**


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 2: Soul**

**v.**

_Ten Years Later_

Emma closed her eyes against the faint light and counted to ten. Before she opened them, she felt a sickening swoop as her world lurched to the side before righting itself again. Pursing her lips, she let out her breath slowly, wrinkling her nose when she inhaled the fetid, fishy air assaulting her nostrils.

 _Day thirty-one of my captivity_ , she thought dully. She wondered what fresh hell this day would bring.

Against her will, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head, admonishing her to have hope, and her lip twisted in wry amusement. Even leagues away, her mother’s steady counsel followed her; when she returned home, she would make her parents laugh with that fact. 

If she was ever to return home, that is.

She sighed, hoping all was well back in Misthaven. She knew her parents would be sick with worry, knew _he_ would be sick with worry, but she shoved all thoughts of his treasured countenance away. It made her sad to think of him, sad and frenzied. And irritated. She missed him! Why had she insisted on leaving him behind? Why had she insisted on heroics?

 _I should not be here!_ she thought furiously, not for the first time. 

_I never should have tried to solve our problems on my own!_ It was also not the first appearance of that particular thought.

It occurred to her that running from her duties at court was not something she’d yet grown out of doing, and she sighed heavily.

But Emma was a practical woman, so she shoved aside her self-recriminations and misgivings, instead looking about her in a disinterested fashion, checking to see whether her current jailers had done anything so careless as to leave behind the key or a blunt object with which she could bash her way to freedom.

“Not that there’s anywhere to escape to but the sea,” she grumbled aloud. Almost as if she was heard by that particular force of nature, she grasped at her makeshift bed when the ship lurched, dipping precariously to the left. Had she any food to speak of in her stomach, she was certain she would have lost it all on the grimy floorboards beneath her feet.

Some time later, Emma became aware of some sort of scuffle aboveboard. This was not new; the pirates who had liberated her from a mercenary’s ship were hardly the most genteel of creatures; fighting seemed to be something they did with relish, their faces as scarred from their adventures as from each other. Luckily for her, the pirate captain appeared to be a decent fellow; he had ordered she remain untouched and thus far, the crew had left her unmolested. Her parents, it seemed, had made the bounty on her life quite clear: she was to be returned without any harm to her person, and those responsible for her safe return would have any crimes forgiven, with a fifty thousand pound reward besides. 

While grateful to her parents for adding the bit about her safe return, she had wished they hadn’t made the amount so high. It seemed that all ships at sea had temporarily halted their fight (or flight) against the Dark One in favor of seeking out the riches offered for her delivery home. Her current captors made ship number four, after the original trip; she had been bound on a mission to meet someone claiming to have information vital to the defeat of the Dark One when her small sloop had been overtaken by an enemy faction. In the ensuing fracas, the enemy had been taken over by what had seemed like deserters from her own kingdom, one of whom had recognized her as a lady of quality and had insisted that her parents would likely pay handsomely for her return. Luckily for her, they were too struck by her status as a noblewoman from their own kingdom that the thought of rape never seemed to enter their tiny minds. 

Not even two days had passed before the mercenaries had arrived, easily overpowering the sailors weak from lack of provisions; they were a ship of lethal-looking women, none of them interested in harming her person, either, or at the very least--far more interested in gold. For weeks, the mercenaries were her captors, feeding her well enough and doing nothing worse than not allowing her much fresh air. One of them had been kinder than the rest, which was not to say much, but she did inform Emma with no small amount of awe that a reward poster had been hung in every tavern from Misthaven to the edges of the world, offering a king’s ransom to bring Emma home, hale and unharmed. After learning their captive’s identity, the lady mercenaries had treated her slightly better, allowing her daily walks above deck and including a strip of meat and a bite of citrus to stave off any unwanted disease.

Emma had almost been sad when they’d been overtaken by the pirates that were her current captors.

But overtaken they were, which surprised Emma when she was brought aboard. The rather motley crew hardly seemed able to keep themselves afloat, much less overtake the very capable lady mercenaries, but when the pirate captain had come into the small cargo hold they’d tossed her in, he’d told her with a smirk that even the most well-run ships could fall prey to a well-aimed chain shot. 

He’d gone on to inform her that she would be untouched as long as she was aboard his ship; he seemed honorable in his own way, telling her that the accommodations were far less fine than she was perhaps used to, but he’d keep her as safe as he could as they made for her home. He’d also informed her that he’d keep contact with his men to a minimum, for she was a fair lass, and he could not watch her at all times to keep her safe.

He’d then made a show of dropping the key to the brig down his shirt and patting it with his hand, offering a wide, toothless smile and leaving her to her thoughts.

That had been a week ago. 

Emma wished they’d get on with it.

The sounds of scuffle grew louder; she was pulled from her musings by the sound of shouts above. Standing from her pallet on the floor, she walked over and pressed her ear to the door, wondering what the hell was transpiring now.

Loud shots, a resounding boom. The ship creaked and groaned, the very wood of the floorboards rattling under her. Then there was a loud cracking sound, followed by sharp listing to the side, and Emma knew that her life once again hung in the balance.

What seemed like hours later, there was a shout outside her cell, followed by some banging and loud curses. She stepped away from the door, watching with both horror and amusement when it startled to rattle and crack.

By the time her new captors had finished chopping their way through, Emma was resting lazily on her makeshift bed, her legs sprawled out in front of her as she propped herself up on her elbows.

“Hello,” she greeted, for what else was there to say?

“Get up,” a man grunted. He looked like any of the other pirates above; had there been a mutiny? Was her sometimes-kind captain now dead, a victim of his crew’s greed?

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” came a somewhat more pleasant voice behind the new pirate. Emma did not like the look in the eyes of the man before her; he raked her over thoroughly as she stood and dusted her hands off on her dirty breeches. 

“She looks like no lady I ever seen,” sneered the pirate. “Wearin’ breeks, and all. I’ve never had me a highborn before.”

“And you won’t start now. The Captain was quite clear: she is to remain untouched.” Emma silently thanked the new voice, watching with wariness as he stepped into the room. She was surprised to see the deference--reluctant deference, but deference nonetheless--paid to the new man by the disgusting pirate. He was short, and had a full beard. He wore a ridiculous red knit stocking cap on his head, and when he smiled at her, he seemed pleasant enough.

“My lady,” he said, lifting his cap and sweeping it forward in a showy bow. “You may call me Mr. Smee. I’m to take you to our ship before this one sinks to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Let’s make haste then, Mr. Smee,” Emma sighed. Emma stood patiently while the other pirate walked over to tie her hands behind her back. When a scratchy burlap sack was pulled over her head, she made to protest, but she felt a gentle hand on her arm.

“It’s for your safety, my lady. The Captain insists; he says it’s best if the men don’t know what they’re missing. He wishes me to inform you that you are his guest, no harm will come to you while on his ship, and that he’s giving you our best quarters. Because of who you are, and all.”

“And who am I?” Emma asked with amusement. _Drat_ , she thought. She wouldn’t be able to seek any means of escape if she could not assess the ship. She’d tried with all of the others, knowing full well that it was futile while at sea, but they had to reach port some time, right? Not knowing the layout would make that more difficult, not that it would stop her from trying. She’d told herself early on that she ought save her strength, but she knew that the first opportunity to steal away, she’d take it.

As she was shoved through the doorway and led up the stairs to the deck, Mr. Smee chuckled at her side.

“A rich payday is what you are,” he told her as he brought her into the sunshine. 

* * *

Mr. Smee informed the crewman that he could take it from there; they’d gotten Emma onto their ship, neatly navigating her over though she was blindfolded. She wondered whether it was a thing they made a habit of doing, leading blindfolded captives from one ship to another over the sea. She heard the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet, heard jeers and voices calling out as she was led away. Mr. Smee took her down a flight of stairs; she was glad when the air below deck was not stale and smelling of fish like the other ships. No, it smelled of lemon and wax, reminding her of the vessels of Misthaven’s armada--this new captain certainly kept a tight ship, as they say, if the clean smell was any indication.

She was stopped, and she heard a door open. Once she was led through the door, the burlap sack was immediately pulled from her head and her hands were freed. She blinked rapidly, becoming accustomed to the brightness of the sun filtering through windows at the back of the cabin.

Emma gaped in surprise as she took in her surroundings.

“This looks like the captain’s quarters!”

“Aye, milady. The Captain himself insisted. He says there’s no reason that a person such as yourself should be locked away like some thief when your only crime is being a victim of circumstance.”

“Kidnapping is what I call it,” she said tightly, rubbing her wrists as she spun around in a slow circle.

“Er, yes,” Mr. Smee said with some discomfort. “You needn’t worry about the crew, they don’t know your identity, only that we’re escorting you back to Misthaven.”

“Do you not suppose they’ll guess?” she asked wryly.

“Probably,” Mr. Smee conceded, “but Captain’s given strict orders that you are not to be trifled with, and believe me when I say: the Captain is a fierce man, and any who question him finds himself adrift.”

“Literally, I take it,” Emma murmured, wondering about the intimidating-sounding captain who now held her life in his hands. She relaxed; perhaps this was her best chance to get back home. All of the tension left her body. She could feel it; she was not really a prisoner here.

“Captain has taken the liberty of removing any weapons, but if I may be so bold, it would behoove you to come with us without fuss. The Captain is an honorable man; as I said, he won’t allow any harm to come to you while on his ship. That’s his promise to you.”

“I’ve heard this before, Mr. Smee,” Emma said wearily. She walked over to a small table and pulled out the chair, grateful for some place to sit that was not the hard ground. She eyed the bed dubiously, longing to stretch out on an actual mattress but wary of sleeping on a strange man’s bed.

“Yes, but the Captain doesn’t dissemble, and he is a man of his word. He says to feel free to read whatever you like, and to make use of anything you see here. He told me to tell you that no one shall enter this room without his express permission, and he’s only likely to grant that honor to me, seeing’s how he knows I hold you no ill will. He also told me to tell you that there’s a change of clothes in the armoire, if you’d like something clean.” Mr. Smee eyed her togs and smiled; Emma may have felt embarrassed at the dubious state of her cleanliness if she weren’t so grateful. Whoever this captain was, Emma sensed that he was a man she could trust. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she might actually make it home unharmed.

“Thank you, Mr. Smee. Might it be too much to ask for something to eat?”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Emma. It’s just Emma.” The man looked horrified at that.

“Oh! Forgive me, I ought to be addressing you more formally--”

“It’s no matter, Mr. Smee. Thank you for your kindness.”

“Of course,” he said, clearly uncomfortable. He swept his hat off his head and bowed nervously before backing out of the room. The scrape of a key and the click of the lock was unmistakeable, and Emma sighed. Perhaps she’d be treated with more care on this new ship, but it did not change the fact that she was being locked away. But still, Emma was nothing if not practical. Kicking out of the boots and breeches she’d been wearing since she’d left the kingdom, she walked over to the captain’s armoire, pulling the doors open and looking for something that might fit. Pawing through several hanging coats, black shirts, and a dress she ignored, she came upon a soft, blue tunic and buff-colored breeches; pulling them on, she made use of a basin of water then walked over to the bed, practically falling upon the worn but clean quilt and giving into the comfort of it. She fell into a deep sleep, and did not wake for some time.

Her dreams were vague and familiar; a forgotten memory, perhaps. A time and a place she’d tried to forget over the years, but one that plagued her at the oddest times, like the night before her marriage. She could not remember the dream with clarity, but she was quite certain she knew who had starred in it.

Even after ten years, she was never certain whether she wished to remember the details of him or not. 

By the time she opened her eyes again it was dark; someone had come in while she slept, leaving a plate on the table and a lit lantern hanging overhead. With a groan, Emma pulled to her feet and walked over to the food, sitting heavily and reaching for a hunk of bread. There was an empty goblet and a half-full bottle of something dark; she pulled the cork off with her teeth around a mouthful of rich, brown bread, moaning happily when she smelled the tang of red wine.

“I’ll say this for you, Captain,” she said to the empty cabin. “You do treat your guests well.”

After finishing the simple repast that included cold ham and sliced pears, Emma sat back and belched delicately, still gripping the wine bottle and swigging from it rather indelicately. She took the opportunity to look around the captain’s quarters more fully. With her wine bottle in tow, she walked over to the shelf that ran along the back of the quarters, reaching out with one finger to touch along the spines of several books perched neatly in what seemed to be alphabetical order by title. So the pirate captain was a learned man. Interesting.

Emma’s examination extended to a set of nautical instruments next to the books, several coins from various kingdoms and one loose gemstone in a pouch stuffed amidst the books, and several rolled maps arranged with a semblance of order in little cubbies opposite the shelf. There was a safe tucked amidst the maps and other ephemera; Emma tried the handle, though she had assumed rightly that it would be locked.

She already knew what was in the armoire. The desk held nothing but parchment, quills, ink, sand, and sealing wax. Well, if the man knew how to read, then he knew how to write. And he was tidy; the only thing that did not seem to have a specific place was an old pulley hook, dull at the tip but somehow devoid of rust. Emma grabbed it, wondering how Mr. Smee could have missed the potential weapon and hoping the captain would not be too harsh once he discovered the error.

She realized she was assigning a personality to her captor-host. That would not do. He may be an honorable scoundrel, but he was nonetheless the scoundrel who was willing to barter her life for a tidy sum of money.

Sighing, Emma walked back to the bed, the good food and better wine having caught up with her overly tired body. She lay back on the mattress and resigned herself to another long bout with captivity, hoping that they were not too far from Misthaven and home.


	6. Chapter 6

Emma was awakened by a thump and a soft curse. Perhaps if she had not slept the day away she would not have heard it, but as it was, her body was rested enough to not require the entire night to sleep. Her eyes popped open and she held back a scream; she’d fallen asleep with the old pulley hook in her hand and she grasped it tightly, counting to three before sitting up with the overlooked weapon pointed in the direction of the noise. **  
**

“What are you doing in my room?” she demanded, feeling slightly ridiculous that she could not see, for the lantern was now out.

“Funny, I thought this was _my_ room,” came a deep voice from several feet away. Emma let out her breath with relief. “Is that where I left that old hook?”

“Oh! Captain,” she said, easing her grip on the hook and dropping it to the floor. “Sorry. I did not know it was you.”

“You could have hardly known it was me when we have yet to meet, lass. And I’m the one who ought to be apologizing; I promised you no one would enter these quarters, yet here I am, interrupting your sleep. Please accept my sincerest apology. I won’t be but a minute, and then you can return to dreaming of better days and better food.” Emma listened for a mocking note in the captain’s words and heard nothing but a smile; indeed, his low, quiet voice was quite pleasant, and somehow reassuring. She rather liked his form of address; he had to know her identity and yet he did not seem intent on bowing before her; he was perfectly respectful, if a bit cheeky in the delivery. Knowing he could not see her in the dark, she smiled broadly. _Perhaps in another life, Captain, we might have been friends._

“The wine was a nice touch,” she said, unsurprised that she suddenly felt quite awake and, were she not mistaken, hungry for conversation. Mr. Smee had been nice but clearly terrified of either her or not following his captain’s orders to a T; her other jailers had been none of them much beyond a stilted exchange of words. Emma felt like this captain might be just the thing to stave off the extreme boredom of being held captive, even though she clearly was not captive here. Testing her theory, she cleared her throat and made an offering, hoping he’d accept it.

“You have an excellent selection of books.”

“They make the hours go by,” he said vaguely, and Emma quelled the feeling of disappointment rising in her throat. She slumped back on the bed and crossed her arms, staring resolutely at the ceiling, though she could barely make out the definition in the beams overhead. As the captain continued with whatever it was he was looking for, Emma decided to try one more thing before she gave it up as a bad job.

“I thank you for the use of your quarters, Captain; it was hardly necessary, but much appreciated. I’d imagine there are no other beds aboard this vessel, so I must express my gratitude.” There. Mother could not fault her manners, nor Granny, who still saw fit to chastise Emma’s easy manner with nobles and commoners alike, even if she was a grown adult now.

“Think nothing of it, love. I could hardly stick you with the crew, and I’m afraid the hold is full.”

“You must be a successful pirate, then.”

“Pirate!” The captain sounded affronted; she turned toward the sound of his ire and could barely make out a man-shaped form in the dark. He shuffled a bit--turning and leaning against the desk a few feet away, she thought--before speaking again. “I’ll have you know, we are _not_ pirates. I do not steal, although there is occasionally some plunder to be had when one runs the blockade.”

“A smuggler,” Emma murmured with approval. She sat up in the bed, scrabbling until her back was to the wall, her knees bent and her arms hugging her legs. “Then I must thank you for providing Misthaven with supplies in this time of war. Without men like you thwarting the Dark One’s defenses, we would not be faring half so well.”

“Yes, well,” he said, seeming uncomfortable, though she wasn’t sure how she knew that. _I wish I could see him_. “I’m not exactly a household name in Misthaven, but my hate for the Crocodile overcomes my distaste for the royal navy.”

Puzzled, Emma turned her head, trying to figure him out. She decided to simply ask. “Why do you hold distaste for my--for the royal navy?”

“Not the navy so much as what I’ve lost because of it,” he said with some mystery, and Emma huffed.

“Your virginity?”

The Captain laughed; the sound was delightful for its unrestrained joy. “Amongst other things.” He continued to stand before her, and while Emma thought it ought to be an awkward moment, it was not. It was not often that she felt comfortable with strangers, and certainly not ones she’d never seen who seemed a bit too easy in her company, but then again--she felt ease with him as well. Was it the low and pleasant timbre of his voice that made her feel comfortable, or was it something else?

She realized that she wished to find out. Ten minutes in an unseen man’s company, and she wanted to know more about him. She hadn’t felt that way toward another person since...

After a fashion, the captain took a deep breath and gave what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech.

“I wish you to know that you are a guest on my ship, lass, not a prisoner, though I’d hesitate to let you roam about freely. My crew is biddable, but I’m afraid that the price for your safe return could make for the rogues getting ideas about going solo, so the door remains locked and only I have the key. Smee will retrieve it from me each time he comes here; I trust him more than most, but I should like to play it safe. If ever you wish to leave this room, I’ll be more than happy to escort you above deck myself, but in all honesty, I’d recommend against it. Men cannot be tempted by what they do not see.” Privately, Emma wondered at the veracity of that statement, but she kept her thoughts to herself. “You are a guest here, my lady. If you feel like you are being treated like chattel or a prisoner, say the word, and I’ll change the circumstance. All right?”

“I understand, Captain.”

After a few moments of not-uncomfortable silence, the Captain seemed to remember where he was. He stood, and this time Emma could see a bit more clearly, her eyes having grown accustomed to the dark. He seemed tall and thin, and he wore no hat or coat, but that could have been due to the late hour.

“I’ll leave you to it, your highness.” Emma sighed as he made his way to the door.

“There is no need for you to address me as such,” she said to his retreating form. He paused on his way to the door, turning back to face her.

“Smee said you were an unlikely princess.”

“My mother tells me so all the time.”

“And the king?”

“He tells me to tuck my elbows when I parry, and to always keep the eyes in the back of my head open.”

“Excellent advice.”

“Captain?”

“Hook,” he supplied. He cleared his throat, and she thought she detected discomfort in the sound. “They call me ‘Captain Hook.’ Good night, Princess. I shan’t disturb your slumber again.”

* * *

 

The following night, however, he did just that. Emma was now caught up on her sleep, what with the admittedly excellent accommodation and decent food. She read one of the captain’s books, one of the ones she used to read to the tortured souls in the hospital when she was younger, until the light in the lantern faded to a dim glow, falling asleep to the peaceful lull of the rocking ship.

When the captain entered sometime later, Emma found she had been hoping he’d do just that. This time, the creak of the door woke her; she wondered if she had been sleeping lightly so she wouldn’t miss the sound in the event that he did come back for another book.

“I do not like apples.”

“And a good evening to you as well, your highness.”

“If you knew anything about Misthaven’s history, you’d understand my dislike.”

“I’d forgotten, but yes. I’ll make sure Smee doesn’t bring you any more apples.”

“What are you reading tonight?”

“Shetland’s _Treatises on the Rights of Man_.”

“Ah. I picked up your copy of Mary Hague.”

“ _The Adventures of Glory & Gallant_ is an old favorite.”

“Mine as well.”

There was a moment of silence, not at all unpleasant, as Emma wracked her brain for something else to say.

“Was the ham to your satisfaction?” he asked at the same time she said, “Where do you sleep if I’m in your bed?”

“Yes,” she answered to his, “I do not sleep.”

“You do not sleep?” she laughed. “That must be convenient when running the blockade.”

“I haven’t slept well in a decade,” he said, his tone firm and unyielding. Emma immediately regretted her line of questioning, though she wished to know more.

“That sounds…” She trailed off, not knowing how to regain the easy camaraderie of moments before. Then the captain sighed heavily; she heard the scrape of a chair being pulled out, and she perceived his form sitting down at the table where she took her meals. Grateful for the dark hiding her smile of satisfaction, she did her best to quell the excitement surging through her. _He wanted to come here to talk to me_ , she thought, feeling the thrilling truth in it with a certainty of which she knew not the source.

“For years, I was plagued with this damned insomnia. It near drove me mad until I discovered that the only thing that made the--that got me any real rest--was sharing my bed with another. As I can hardly ask any of the crew to do that and I do not wish to bring a woman aboard for the express purpose of easing my dreams, I must make do with a few hours’ sleep while at sea. And content myself with frequent trips to port so that I can get a full night’s rest.”

Somehow, the captain’s frank explanation of how he’d learned to beat his insomnia, while highly improper to discuss with anyone much less a princess, calmed Emma in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible. She thought it was because there had only ever been one person who had been unguarded with her, completely unimpressed that she was the princess, but she stopped that line of thought before it could coalesce into concrete memories. The captain’s aim was not to shock her, that was apparent; he simply seemed...willing to share a bit of himself. She could understand the urge--something about the cloak of night and the fact that neither had looked upon the other’s face made the intimacy and impropriety of the moment not only comforting, but desirable.

“I make for a terrible princess,” she told him, earning a chuckle that rumbled through the dark cabin. “No, really. I’ve never been comfortable with performing my duties. I attend all the required functions, of course, and I even consented to an arranged marriage after…” Images of Killian finally intruded, but like she’d been doing for ten years now, she stowed those away in the deepest recesses of her heart, not before taking a brief moment to silently scold him for intruding on her thoughts _now_. “I married and then gave birth to my heir, whom I am missing terribly.”

“I’ll get you to the princeling in no time, highness. We should reach the blockade within two or three days; from there, it is a mere matter of avoiding the Crocodile’s _Interceptor_ , and then you’ll be home.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, grateful that he’d given the information she hadn’t thought to ask. “I’m certain my son is quite worried, but not as worried as my father. I’m sure Henry’s providing comfort to both my parents, who have enough to worry over without wondering whether their ridiculous daughter has gotten herself into another scrape.”

“They must be desperate to get you back, with the reward they’ve set.”

“Were you searching for me, then?” It rankled, the thought that this man was only in it for the money, though she could not say why. All of the others had also been in it for the money, and she could understand that. Fifty thousand pounds was no small amount.

“I wasn’t _not_ searching for you, princess,” he said wryly. “We’d heard of the reward, of course--hard not to. Word that royalty has been captured with a handsome payout for their safe return reaches every corner of the ocean. When we came across the pirates, it was merely a happy accident. The sniveling pirate captain offered you up in exchange for his life. I simply left him adrift on his crippled ship. I can’t abide by pirates. I hardly need the money, but my crew would mutiny fast as lightning if I simply returned you to your parents with nothing more than a hot meal and a good day to you, sir.”

“Fair enough.” Somehow, Emma believed him. She could not say why; perhaps it was his easy manner, or perhaps it was simply the dark making the turn of her thoughts fanciful. But she knew that she trusted this Captain Hook, silly though his moniker may be. Why was that? Something in the deep rumble of his voice soothed her, reminded her of better times. Or perhaps it was simply that he was kind, and she felt safe with him--he reminded her of her youth, when she had very little to worry about.

“Might I ask you something, Princess?”

“Something tells me I’d be unable to stop you.” He chuckled, and Emma felt a flutter in her belly. She decided that she liked the sound of his laughter--it wasn’t at all mocking, merely full of simple amusement. It warmed Emma down to her toes and back up again.

“What were you doing so far from home?”

Emma sighed. Her parents had wanted to know her reasons for leaving as well. She could hardly articulate them then, but she found with no small amount of consternation that the words flowed quite easily with the privateer captain.

“I...grew tired of simply sitting around, doing nothing. Oh, I knew that keeping up morale at court was an important thing, but I suppose I disliked the idleness of it all. The pomp, the preening. The false flattery. A widowed and still young princess is never allowed to remain alone--there are always men paying court, men from home, men from far away seeking to make alliances. And none of them wish to discuss anything of importance! They’re intent on marriage or worse, seduction. I’ve no wish for any of it. So I grew tired of their raillery, and I informed my parents that I wanted to be active in the war effort. They reluctantly agreed.”

“And your son?” he asked quietly. Emma’s spirits fell at the question, but she faced his baldy honest inquiry.

“Henry told me he was proud that I was going to meet the agents who wished to impart information on the Dark One’s plans, and that he wished he were old enough to join me. I told him that his father would have been proud, and that next time he could tag along.”

The Captain had leaned forward at her mention of the Dark One, and she wondered at his interest there, but she did not press the issue, and he did not mention it. Instead, he asked, “What was your husband like?”

“Neal? He was...funny. Occasionally very thoughtful, but somewhat self-absorbed. Had he lived, he would have been a good enough father, I think.”

“I do recall that he died soon after your son’s birth.”

“Do you keep up with the goings-on of the court of Misthaven?” she asked with amusement.

“No, but one hears things. Actually, I try not to think about it at all,” he said darkly, and somewhat to himself. Emma wondered what that was about. She could tell that there was some story there, but she did not wish to press his confidence, even if they were both being quite frank and honest with one another in the moment.

“I ought to leave you to your rest,” he said after several minutes had passed. Emma nodded; realizing he could not see her, she attempted to tease him from his sudden somber mood.

“What about your rest, Captain?”

“I’ll be fine.” Emma saw him rise; crestfallen, she told herself that she was simply starved for companionship when she tried to prolong the conversation.

“May I make a request, Captain?” He paused at the door, waiting for her response. “I wonder if it would be possible to have some soap and a washcloth.”

“As you wish,” he said softly before leaving her to her sleep and her consternation. She wondered if he would again return to speak with her the following night.

She rather hoped so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by the beautiful and glorious seethelovelyintheworld on tumblr!


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 2: Soul**

**vii.**

Emma moaned, a long, deep exhale of utter satisfaction. She closed her eyes and sank lower, amazed that something she took for granted back home could be so wickedly decadent when traveling by ship.

The Captain had not only provided her with soap and a washcloth, but he had managed to produce an entire hip bath filled with hot water. Mr. Smee had appeared soon after clearing her supper dishes with a copper tub, hauling steaming buckets of water as Emma watched with greedy eyes. Just before leaving, Mr. Smee had brought in a platter with a neatly folded cloth, three different kinds of scented oils, and a cake of lavender and rosemary-scented soap. After telling her that there were towels in the trunk at the foot of the bed, he closed the door, the click of the lock assuring her that she would be able to enjoy her bath without fear of being interrupted.

She sat in the water until it grew tepid, not wishing to leave the comfort of her orange blossom-infused bath. For the first time in weeks she felt clean and invigorated. When Mr. Smee scratched at the door shortly after she’d pulled on a fresh set of breeches and one of the captain’s overly large black shirts, she called out for him to come in. She looked in the small mirror by the door, smiling at her own pink-cheeked glow.

“Everything to your satisfaction, Mistress?”

“Yes, Mr. Smee. It was absolutely wonderful, thank you. And please convey my thanks to the Captain.”

“He was embarrassed he hadn’t thought to offer it to you before. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to have someone help me haul this out.”

Emma started at that, not wanting to meet a new person who may not be as kind as Mr. Smee or the captain, but the young boy who arrived to help did not spare her a glance when he came in to aid in removing the tub full of dirty water. Emma felt slight guilt at that; she wondered how often, if ever, the crew was allowed a full bath, but the princess in her merely shrugged. She was locked in a room on a ship; even if it was for her alleged safety, she would act the princess if it got her clean skin and a fresh set of clothing.

Shortly after, Emma grew tired, turning down the lantern and lying atop the counterpane of the bed. The evening air was chilly, but she did not quite wish to smother her clean smell by wrapping herself up in a blanket. Eventually, her mind stilled and she fell into an easy slumber, her sleep aided by pleasant thoughts of a dark man in a dark room with a deep voice, and the anticipation that he might continue to visit her in the night.

She was not disappointed in that. Sure enough, she was awakened by the scrape of a key in the lock. Drifting awake with a smile on her lips, Emma’s toes curled in pleasure.

_Oh, dear_ , she thought to herself as the captain hovered at the doorway.

“Good evening, Princess,” he called out softly.

“Hook,” she greeted sternly, feeling a giggle catch in her throat.

“I wondered if I might--”

“You may come in,” she said imperiously before dissolving into laughter. “You should not have to ask before entering your own room, you know.”

“Perhaps. I’m asking all the same.”

“Oh, do come in,” she laughed. “You’re letting in the cold.”

He chuckled, closing and locking the door behind him with care before seating himself at the table. She heard him sigh deeply, and while she wondered what could be weighing so heavily with him, she also delighted in the fact that he was no longer standing on pretense. He did not go directly to his shelf of books; he simply sat down, as if their nightly conversations had come to mean as much to him as they did to her. She did not pause to wonder how this had happened in such a short period; the last time she’d grown so quickly at ease with a man was not a time she wished to think about.

“It smells heavenly in here.”

“You’re hardly the first man to suggest I was divine, Captain.”

Even though she had no idea what he looked like, Emma fancied she could discern his eyebrows raising as he spoke.

“You are bold this evening.”

“I’m bold every day.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You’re hardly meek yourself.”

“Ah, well. I wouldn’t be able to keep my captaincy if I weren’t something of an arrogant blackguard.”

“You seem honorable enough.”

“I’ve got a woman locked away in my quarters.”

“True. But you haven’t so much as touched her.”

“Much to my deep regret.”

“Captain,” she laughed, attempting to sound like a scolding parent but coming up short. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Trust me, Princess,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You’ll know when I flirt with you.”

“Now who’s the bold one?”

“Always me.”

While Emma was enjoying herself immensely, she became aware that there was a tired quality to the captain’s voice, a weariness that had not been there upon their first meeting. It hit her then, with some force, that while she was not necessarily being selfish as she had no other good option, she was occupying the man’s bed, and he was not sleeping. The guilt of a princess born to privilege who did not have to think of such things assailed her. Without thinking, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Why don’t you come lie down and rest?”

This time she practically _heard_ his eyebrows lift to the ceiling.

“Perhaps it’s best I be leaving now,” he said carefully; Emma wondered if she heard slight hesitation in his voice, like he had considered it for a moment. Or was it a fanciful notion?

“I--I did not mean like that,” she said with some exasperation. “I simply meant…” She trailed off, not before uttering a very soft, barely discernable “fuck.”

“My, my,” the captain said. This time, there was a definite note of masculine interest in his voice; Emma tried in vain not to hear it. _This is not going to end well_ , she thought with desperation.

Or perhaps _very_ well.

“What?” she finally said, to break the silence more than anything.

“I never thought to hear royalty use such foul language.”

“You haven’t met my mother. And I never thought to be kidnapped and held for fucking ransom, Captain.”

“Touché .”

“Indeed.”

“I thought perhaps I’d fallen asleep and was having a particularly odd dream, hearing such a filthy word pass from your lips.”

“It’s hardly proper for you to be discussing my lips, Captain.”

“It’s hardly proper for you to offer me your bed, Princess.”

“It’s _your_ bed.”

“Not right now, it isn’t.”

Emma chewed on her lip, a habit Mother had never managed to squash. The air was thick with tension, she could feel it; she had not felt this way in quite some time, and never with Neal. Not since…

_No_.

The memory of a young man lying in a bed and smiling at her, his eyes telling her that if she asked it, he’d pluck down every one of the stars just for her, flashed through her mind. She closed her eyes, willing his image away, angry with herself for thinking of him once again. She was too vulnerable, too tired, too homesick. _That_ was why her mind kept thinking of the man who’d left her ten years before.

And it was why she finally decided to give up all pretense of princess-like conduct and simply behave like a woman who was keenly interested in the unknown man sitting in the dark next to her bed.

Emma had learned long ago the power of being a woman. Strip away the title, strip away the social niceties, strip away the strictures of society. When it came down to it, if there was a man who responded to her in a way that made the both of them aware of each other, she knew he would follow her lead. It was not manipulation, it was not taking advantage. It was about opening a door and smiling, ensuring that he knew what he was getting into as he willingly walked right in.

“You did say you could not sleep well without a companion. So.”

“So?” She knew she did not imagine the breathy catch in his voice.

“I am right here.” Emma barely recognized herself, even as she felt the rightness of what she was saying.

“Your royal highness,” he warned, as if saying her title would bring her back to her senses. Emma feared she was far too gone. She spared a thought for propriety, that in the days to come she might end up looking back on this moment with regret, but presently, she really did not care. She was tired of being appropriate, and the captain was simply tired; perhaps they could find solace and some much-needed respite in each other. She knew he would not do anything, and she knew she simply wanted to lie next to him for a while. Suddenly, it seemed like the only reasonable thing to do; if only she could convince him of the same.

“Captain Hook,” she said, her voice clear and her will strong. “You are in need of some rest. And I--”

“What is it you need, Princess?” His weary voice was husky and deep; it was extremely appealing.

“I do not know,” she whispered, for it was true.

“Then perhaps I ought to be going.”

She knew he was right. Nonetheless, she said the only thing there was to say:

“Stay.”

_This is madness_.

“We do not know one another.”

“Then why do I feel as if we do?” she whisper-asked, to herself more than anything, but he answered her anyway.

“You are not alone.”

“But you are, are you not?” she said, smiling at him in the dark. Somehow, she knew he could see it.

“That is not what I meant, but yes.” Emma did not know how, but she sensed that the captain did not speak of himself easily to others, free as he was with her; she wondered what it was about him, what it was about her, that they each felt so willing to discuss things so freely with one another.

“Then come, Hook,” she urged, holding her hand out, deciding for the first time in many years to open herself up to another.

_Do not hurt me like he did_ , she begged him silently as he rose from his chair. She watched the darkness of his form approaching the bed at a slow pace, her heart racing, her mind racing, her thoughts at a complete and utter standstill.

“This bunk hardly fits two comfortably,” he said gruffly. He stood at the side at the bed, not making another move. Emma could see the suggestion of his features--his hair was blacker than the shadows hiding his features. She could detect a beard, and two dark slashes for brows.

“Then I shall lie on my side,” she said, her own voice somewhat husky with anticipation. She knew it would not be sexual, no; this was much more than the mere coupling of heated flesh; she knew it and she was quite sure he knew it as well. Yet she was unafraid of the impending intimacy, and in fact looked forward to it.

She could think about why she was so certain of him later, in the light of day.

_This shall be a one-time thing_ , she told herself, even as she inwardly laughed at her own denial.

“Well, Captain. Climb aboard,” she said, going for teasing and falling somewhat far from the mark. She was too keyed up, too excited. And she didn’t even know his real name!

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask for it, but then she discerned him shrugging out of his great coat, and she forgot to ask anything. She felt a warm gust of leather scent wash over her and then watched as he turned, sitting at the very edge of the bed and leaning down to pull off his boots.

It had been quite some time since Emma had shared her bed with anyone other than her son when he was younger. He used to climb in with her in the early hours of the morning, diving under the covers and snuggling into her side until the sun reached a more suitable level for waking. Thinking of Henry caused a fresh wave of homesickness to wash over her, and more than ever, she wanted comfort--the comfort Hook seemed willing to provide.

She nearly gave into the urge to reach up and comb her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck as he faced away from her; there was something seductive about impatiently waiting for a man to climb into bed, his back curved, his face and thoughts a complete mystery. When he straightened to standing, Emma scooted until her back hit the cool wall. She peeled the quilt she was lying on back, scrambling until she herself was sliding between the sheets beneath that were warmed from her body.

She looked up, and though she could not make out his features at all, she could have sworn on all the gods that he had a sheepish look on his face as he reached up to cup the back of his neck.

“I, uh. One more thing.” He lowered his arm, reaching for his other wrist. She heard a click and a thump as something hit the ground, but before she could ask what the sound was, she found herself distracted by the dip of the mattress as he pressed his knee onto the edge of the bed.

“If you’re certain, Princess Emma.”

“It’s just sleep, Captain. Everyone needs a good night’s rest. Even privateer captains. And I need you well so I can return home, is that not so?”

“I may have bad dreams.”

“I’m so tired, I might just sleep through any sleep-talking you have.”

She realized he was shaking his head as he said, “This is more than mere talking in my sleep. You’re a capable lass, but I’m afraid you couldn’t handle this.”

_Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it._ Instead, she said, “I can handle it, Captain,” challenging him to trust her.

“I may hurt you,” he whispered.

“You would never,” she assured him. She no longer questioned the utter conviction in her voice. “Now, get in here.”

“As you wish, highness,” he said, his voice stronger, and no longer uncertain. With that, he slid in next to her, lying on his side and facing her before pulling the quilt over the both of them. She realized he was right in front of her while managing to keep at least half a foot between them. She almost wished to grab at him and pull him closer so he would not fall off the edge of the bed. Instead, she shifted her legs, fully aware that the movement would bring them closer together. She was not disappointed; her knee touched his, and she held her breath to see how he would take it.

After several seconds, he returned the pressure, his thigh brushing hers. She tried like hell to let her breath out slowly so he would not hear it; idly, she wondered if he could discern the quick staccato of her heart.

He shifted slightly, twisting his arm until he must have been lying on it. She felt the mattress dip very near her side--his hand, perhaps, trying to keep his balance so he would not touch her. Testing her theory, she took a deep breath, the movement of her chest making her own arm move.

Her fingers brushed against his.

She heard a sharp inhale through his nose and mirrored it; the smell of Captain Hook assaulted her. Leather. Alcohol. Warm male.

Just as she was starting to wonder whether she was going to get a wink of sleep, he interrupted her racing thoughts.

“Good night, Princess Emma.”

Chuckling, she lifted her chin, facing him as best she could. She thought she could see his brows drawn down; if she were a braver woman, she would reach out and smooth the worry from between them. Was he concerned over the impropriety? Or that he really might hurt her with the violence of his dreams? Or was it some other thing she had yet to consider?

Emma dashed away all of those thoughts. She simply wished to forget that she was a princess for a while, that she had been taken from her mission, that she had duties and obligations waiting for her somewhere in a far-off kingdom. Right now, she merely wished to live fully in this particular moment in time, the one where she was nothing more than a woman letting her guard down with a man.

“Emma,” she told him, her voice still holding traces of her laughter. “It’s just Emma.”

He stiffened then, and she wondered if he was already having second thoughts. Or, ridiculously, if he was concerned with the impropriety of dropping her title. They were lying in a bed together; surely, it could not be any less proper if she invited him to use her name?

Wishing to ease him back to familiarity, she stretched her fingers so that they brushed his upturned hand. He was still stiff, still unyielding, so she ventured to stroke his palm gently, marveling at how easy it was to simply let herself _be_.

When she felt his tension ease, she laced her fingers with his, feeling joy in her heart at the simple touch. She squeezed his hand and he let out a soft exhale of pleasure.

Fearing she might ruin the moment but sallying forth nonetheless, Emma asked him a question.

“How did you discover how to ease your dreams?”

“Did you want details?” he asked softly, amusement clear in his tone. “I can be rather graphic, if you like. Prolific, too.” She squeezed his hand hard, making him chuckle softly.

“I meant--”

“I know what you meant.” He squeezed her hand back and took a deep breath. She looked up to face him, frustrated that she could not make out his features in the cozy darkness of the room. “There was a woman,” he said after a fashion, and by the sadness of his tone, she already knew that this was not a story that ended well. “Her name was Milah. She was...audacious. Full of wonder. She wished to have adventures, and I obliged.

“I knew she was married, but I was young and foolish and too much in love to be concerned with any husband. Little did I know that she was married to the Dark One. Perhaps if I’d have known that, I would have let her be, and I would not have lost her as I did.”

Emma gasped softly; she had so many questions, but his clear distaste for the Dark One suddenly made much more sense. The imp had taken his brother and his love.

“Oh, Hook,” she sighed, wishing she could take his sorrow into her, to ease his troubles, even if for a little while.

“Aye.” There was a tightness to his voice that extended to the way his hand flexed in hers. “The Dark One does not share. He cut her down before my eyes. I already hated him for what he did to my brother; my hate had a clear agenda, now. I will not rest until he is defeated. I simply require the means. For years, I’ve searched for a way to kill him. One day, I know I will.”

“As my kingdom is looking for the same thing, perhaps we can work together.”

“It’s something I need to do for myself.”

That much she could understand. She wanted to help, but that was a conversation to be had by the light of day. In that moment, she simply wished to lie next to him, breathe him in and offer him some of the comfort he seemed so desperately to need.

“Anyway. After I lost Milah, it took a while for me to attempt to ease the nightmares with another, but once I tried it with mild success, I could not stop. I’ve tried all sorts of potions and sleep aids, but all that I seem to require is another person next to me to make the dreams less...violent.” He squeezed her hand once again, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, and almost pleading. “I hope I do not lash out at you. I’ve...I once hurt someone I cared for very deeply with my nightmares. It’s not something I wish to repeat.”

“I told you. You won’t hurt me.”

“Ah, Emma,” he said. Emma felt a surge of pleasure at the way her name sighed from his lips. “If only I could be as certain.”

“I have enough certainty for the both of us,” she said firmly. “I sleep lightly; just look at how I woke when you came in search of a book! If I feel you thrashing, I’ll simply...move out of your way.”

“Where do you think to go in this small bed?”

“Just...trust me, Captain.”

“I do,” he offered quietly.

Emma thought that in another set of circumstances--one, perhaps, in which they were different people, and had known each other longer--that the captain might have kissed her good-night. Not anything romantic or even sexual (though she was starting to feel a troublesome ache deep down inside that she did not care to examine just yet); a pressing of his lips on her forehead, even a brush of a cheek on her own. He did not do any of those things, of course; he simply fell silent, and she knew when he fell to sleep, his breaths evening out, steady and rhythmic, peaceful enough to allow her to slip into her own easy slide into slumber.

Some time in the middle of the night, Emma discerned movement, a soft struggle. She shivered, registering that the quilt had been pulled from her shoulders, leaving her skin cold to the touch. Without waking completely, she inched closer to the man next to her, pulling at the covers to unwrap him from the smothering of his own making.

“No,” he muttered. Faint whimpers nearly yanked her to waking, but she refused to allow it. Instead, she reached for his face, cool fingers stroking feverish skin as she murmured soothing sounds into his neck.

“Shh. It’s all right. Shh. I’m here.”

He sighed, moaning unintelligibly in response; his entire body relaxed, the easing of his tension in turn easing Emma back into sleep. She tried to roll back to the wall, but she discovered he had wrapped his arm about her waist. Before her mind could wake her further by insisting she needed to pull away, she simply gave in happily, resting her head in the perfect curve between his neck and shoulder and draping her arm across his chest.

“Sleep,” he mumbled, his hand patting her hip.

_Sleep_ , she agreed, drifting back on a contented sigh.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> b e d s h a r i n g


	8. Chapter 8

Emma had a terrible dream. She could not remember the details, merely how she felt upon waking.

_Gone. He is gone._

She opened her eyes, reaching around in a panic, knowing the captain would be gone and still somehow surprised by his absence.

She could still make out traces of his scent on the pillow stuffed beneath her head–the scent that had always been there only stronger now, even though he had left. She breathed deeply, fancying she could still detect traces of his salt, though she knew that to be a foolish notion. Sitting up, she blinked at the brightness; she’d managed to sleep through the morning, the sun shining white-hot through the windows.

She could hear the call of gulls off in the distance; inexplicably, she felt both elation and deflation at the sound. Gulls meant land; were they near Misthaven already?

If so, that meant she was home.

She ought not feel pangs of disappointment.

_He left me first_ , she told herself angrily as she rose from the bed and turned to tuck the blankets neatly around the corners of the mattress. _Besides, it is not as if we mean anything to one another._

“Foolish,” she muttered at herself angrily. She went to swipe at her eyes and discovered with horror that there were tears there.

Stalking over to the wash basin and splashing cold water on her face, Emma closed her eyes and asked herself how it was that she could have fallen for someone in such a short span of time, especially when she had never seen his face.

“Perhaps he looks like Leroy on a bad day,” she said aloud, then chuckled. As if that would matter–though she _hoped_ he didn’t look like Leroy. She continued sponging herself, reluctant to remove any traces of the captain from her skin and blushing at the memory of curling into his body sometime in the night.

Had she frightened him away by clinging to him?

Stupid, stupid princess.

What man wants a person clearly in need of coddling?

Continuing to chastise herself for her behavior with the captain, Emma finished making herself ready for the day, slipping into her boots and telling herself that it was, perhaps, for the best that they had arrived in Misthaven already.

She would not have to endure another night of her own foolish behavior. She would not have to embarrass the captain by practically begging him to sleep with her.

_If only I’d_ really _slept with him_ , came the unbidden thought, and then she felt herself flush once again.

_What has come over me?_

By the time a knock came at the door some time later, Emma had gone and gotten herself into a snit, alternating berating herself for being so foolish as to fall for an unseen man and being angry with him for being so weak. So what if she took comfort from sharing his burdens? So what if that had been the best night of rest she’d had in years?

So what if she may never look into his eyes and see if they held the same simmering heat she felt curling in her belly at the mere memory of holding his hand?

“Enter,” Emma called out, her commanding tone a bit harsher than strictly necessary. She felt guilt for that when Mr. Smee opened the door with a cautious look replacing his usually affable features.

“Your highness,” he said, his voice and manner hesitant.

“Good morning, Mr. Smee. Forgive me, I am…out of sorts this morning.”

“That’s going around,” he said darkly as he entered with a tray. He set it down and as he did, Emma heard the men above deck calling out and scuffling overhead. Suddenly, the room shook and then jolted; she had to grab the table to prevent from falling over.

Mr. Smee winced as he reached out to steady her before thinking on it again, stopping his hand just above her arm.

“Sorry for almost touching you–sorry for not warning you. We’ve made port, Princess.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Smee. You’ve been kindness itself, and by the way–even princesses need assistance when they are less than graceful. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me during our journey together,” she said, dropping into the practiced address of a crown princess. She had been making easy with her behavior since being abducted; while never strictly proper while performing her duties, she did at least act with decorum and had best return to acting that way.

_Until I see that captain and give him a piece of my mind_ , she thought with mutiny. Whether her definition of “mutiny” included kissing him senseless, she did not know.

“You’re not at all what I would have guessed,” Mr. Smee said, toying with the plate of bread and cheese he’d set down on the table. He looked up at her, a question clear in his eyes as he said, “And I believe the captain thinks so as well. But don’t tell him I said that,” he quickly added, looking over his shoulder furtively like a child caught pilfering cookies before they’d cooled completely.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Smee?” she asked casually, pinching off a bit of bread and rolling it between two fingers. She found she was not at all hungry.

“Well, I know the two of you have not met, but he seemed surprised that you were so pleasant to me. I thought maybe he had a low opinion of highborn ladies and said as much, but he near took my head off when I said so. ‘I once knew a lady–a real Lady, mind, in the truest sense of the word–who nursed me back to health when the Dark One took my hand after taking my brother. I would have died without my angel, and I never even thanked her for her kindness.’ I wanted to ask more because the Captain is so secretive about his past, but I knew he’d make me scrub the deck for a fortnight if I intruded on his privacy, so I kept me mouth shut. I prefer tending to pretty princesses and keeping the men from sniffing around, you see.” Mr. Smee finished his explanation shyly, tapping the table with a rough finger before saying one more thing.

“Anyway. I figured the reason he had no wish to meet you was because of the way he spoke of his highborn lady. Never heard such reverence in the captain’s voice–I s’pose he didn’t want any reminders. The captain no longer has any need for the gentle things in life like yourself, highness. That, or he didn’t want to be reminded of what was so obviously a painful memory.”

Emma’s mind was a-whirr. She nodded as Mr. Smee took his leave, but she could not get the man’s words out of her head.

A real lady who nursed him back to health when the Dark One took his hand. An angel, he’d said.

Emma had never told Killian that she was a princess, and he’d never asked.

Just as she’d never asked how he lost his hand.

Had she?

She could not remember. She had spent the better part of ten years decidedly not thinking of the young lieutenant who had left without a clue as to where he’d gone or what he would do that the details were fuzzy. All she could remember were fleeting images of a handsome face filled with despair and sorrow, and eyes so blue she had wondered whether he used magic to enhance their hue. Eyes that had first looked upon her with suspicion and distrust; eyes that had brimmed with humor and emotion as they got to know one another; eyes that, at one time, she had thought were filled with love.

_It cannot be him_ , she thought with despair. _I buried him in the depths of my heart long ago._

Emma continued tearing at bits of bread as she listened to the men above, calling out to one another with rough tongues and sharp commands. _Somewhere up there_ , she thought, _is a man that I wish to yell at_.

_If the coward would only come down here and face me in the light of day._

_No wonder I…_

_Does he realize who I am?_

_How could I have been so foolish?_

_How could he have left me?_

Her eyes narrowed the longer she thought about it while picking at her bread. All of the things she had wondered after discovering that Killian had left before she could say good-bye returned in a deluge until she could no longer think straight.

She waited impatiently to be brought above deck, deciding whether she could overpower the kind Mr. Smee. And all the while, she planned the perfect tirade for the privateer captain who may or may not have been the only man she had ever fallen in love with. Twice.

**End Part 2**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me! next week, my work schedule is a little weird, but i'll do my best to get the updates going. hope you aren't too aggravated with the detours these two idiots keep taking...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have added a chapter. also, i have a crazy work schedule for the next few days, so updates here on ao3 will be later than they've been. i'll update on tumblr earlier in the day, tho.

******Part 3: The Next**

Killian hopped off his ship, his boots landing with a slap on the docks of the Misthaven harbor. He paused momentarily, sucking in a deep breath and waiting for the temporary land sickness to sweep over him. Having lived on a ship since he was a boy always meant he was far less comfortable when ashore, but he refused to allow for any weakness, assuming he stopped the vertigo that assailed him while on land by sheer force of will alone. **  
**

_Captain Hook is not a weak man_ , he thought with satisfaction as he took a step.

_Killian Jones, on the other hand…_

And with that grim reminder of all the ways he would never deserve the love of a princess, he stormed forward, glancing briefly at his hook before heading for the castle he could see in the distance.

He hadn’t known, of course, that the Princess Emma he had been keeping safe in his very quarters was _his_ Emma. He hadn’t known she was the princess ten years ago, though he felt stupid for not realizing it sooner. The deference with which the nuns had treated her, the way she had unflinchingly tended to all of those men, as if it was her duty. The evenness of her nose and the perfection of her face. She both looked and acted royal, as if she knew the problems of the world but had been intent on rectifying them using nothing but her grace and noble countenance to cow men like him into subservience.

Perhaps he’d been too young, or too naive to even consider it. She had simply been his savior, an angel sent to ease his suffering. How could he have known that the witty and kind young lass he’d fallen so helplessly in love with all those years ago was the crown princess of the entire kingdom?

The very same woman currently sprawled out on his bed and once again leaving her mark on his sleep.

When he had awakened with the dimness of dawn, it was to discover with some surprise that he had slept through the entire night without waking once. And that there was a mass of blonde hair covering the face of the princess who was wrapped around him as if she feared he would fall.

His princess. His Emma.

He still could not countenance it. When he’d left all those years ago, he’d thought he’d not see her again. In fact, he’d avoided all instances where he might meet someone who might even know of her, just to keep from thinking about her. With time, memories of her had faded into the lovely remembrances of youth, a part of his life that existed before he’d become the hardened man he’d worked so hard to become. A man who’d had everything he’d ever loved taken from him in an infamous fashion.

_Except you took Emma from yourself_ , he thought with disgust. _And you’re doing it once again._

He did not deserve her.

It was why he did not wish to face her. Instead, he’d decided to inform her parents that she had been found, let the royals come collect their wayward daughter, and then be on his way, fifty thousand pounds richer and her none-the-wiser that the boy she’d once tended had slept in her arms, giving him the only peace he’d known in several years.

_Just like when they’d first met._

He was a coward.

The night he had entered his own quarters, he’d merely been looking for a book. He did not sleep well on a normal day; giving up his bed ensured that he was destined for sleepless nights, and he’d resigned himself to roaming the ship while sailing his precious cargo back to Misthaven. In a fit of pique, he’d decided it could do no harm to creep into his cabin and avail himself of his own library. He was the captain, was he not? No princess would keep him from entering his own quarters. It never occurred to him that she might be awake, much less that he might enjoy their conversation.

When the lonely princess had seemed starved for company, the dormant gentleman within him had reared to life. Besides, she seemed pleasant enough. He wanted to dislike her; he could not.

As he skirted around fishwives calling their wares and dirt-encrusted pickpockets seeking an easy mark, he snarled at any who dared make eye contact with the angry captain with a hook for a hand mentally berating himself for his conduct with the princess of the land.

He knew when he returned for the second night that it was a mistake; he was not doing it for her, he was doing it for himself. He did not think to take advantage of the princess’s obvious kindness; he simply wished to be near her, to absorb some of her goodness into himself so perhaps he would not be quite the scoundrel he knew himself to be. Selfish, selfish Hook. But there was something in her teasing manner, in the way she seemed to be…herself with him. He did not think it an act; the princess was a true _lady_ , but not in the haughty sense of the word.

He wondered why he did not recognize her voice; perhaps it was because of the passage of time? Why had he not figured it out from that first meeting in the dark? He’d known all those years ago that the princess was named Emma, but many nobles named their children after royalty to curry favor; it could hardly be considered a clue as to her identity as his angel-lady. No, his angel was a thing of the past, a part of his life just before he’d turned into an uncaring man who only wanted money and revenge.

He shoved away the lovely thought that she was a part of his life _now_. How he’d always longed for that even as he sailed further and farther from Misthaven, becoming the despicable character he was to this day.

_She was not for you then, and she is not for you now._

_She will one day rule this kingdom, and you will serve her as you served her parents: without a thought or care for her well-being, and from far across the ocean._

He tried to ignore the utter despair that descended on him as he acknowledged that soon, he would leave her once again.

When Killian arrived at the castle keep, he wiped the surliness from his face and replaced it with a smirk; swaggering toward the guard at the gate, he introduced himself as one of the kingdom’s privateers, freshly returned with cargo that was for the eyes of the queen and king only.

The castle sentry sneered up at him, shifting his stance slightly to indicate that he thought Killian a threat. Eyeing his hook, the guard said in a voice barely concealing his contempt, “We don’t allow pirates here.”

“Keep up, mate,” Killian sighed. “Privateer, not pirate. I assure you, the queen will be very interested in what I have to say.”

“You can apply with Leroy, her majesty’s most trusted aide, for an appointment.” After thinking a moment, the guard added, “Perhaps you can see her majesty three Tuesdays from never. Mate.”

“Very clever, my friend. Should I carve my appointment across your forehead, do you suppose?”

The guard reached for the sword at his side.

Sighing, Killian raised his hand and loosened his stance, remembering the old adage about catching flies with honey. “Listen, sir. Where is this Leroy? I assure you, I really do have something the queen is interested in. Not information, but something far more dear. Please. May I be directed to someone who has the ear of the queen?”

The guard seemed to consider the change in address, opening his mouth to respond after a moment, but he was interrupted from further conversation by a friendly voice.

“I can take him, Clark.” A young, freckled-faced boy appeared from the keep, a half-peeled orange in his hand.

“Your–”

“It’s all right, Clark. I don’t mind. I was headed up there, anyway.” The boy beamed a familiar-looking smile at the guard, who seemed to melt with fondness at the boy’s words.

“Come along, then,” the boy said, tossing an orange rind to the ground. The guard scrambled to pick it up, which cemented Killian’s guess as to the boy’s identity.

“You’re Henry.”

The boy stopped his harried pace, turning to face Killian with a question on his face while Clark the guard glared..

“Prince Henry, actually, but I don’t mind that you dropped the ‘Prince’ part. Mother says it’s not a good idea to put on airs and that we’re just people like everyone else.” Killian smiled; much like his mother, Killian found that he liked Henry after only two minutes in his company. “But maybe around my grandpa, you should add the ‘Prince’ bit. Grandpa’s kinda fussy about stuff like that.”

“Duly noted, your highness.” Henry groaned.

“Ugh, _please_ don’t say _that_. I’ll get enough of it when I’m actually the king, I don’t want that now.” He popped an orange wedge into his mouth before thinking a moment and offering the fruit to Killian.

“Thank you, but no. I’d rather not have a sticky hand when I meet your grandmother.”

“If Leroy lets you, that is,” Henry said around his mouthful of orange. “He’s grumpy, and way too protective, which is funny, because the only person more capable of defending themselves than the Queen is my mother, the princess.”

_Emma’s son_ , Killian marveled while shaking his head. _Every inch as delightful as his mother._

“I like you, Henry,” Killian told him. And he did.

“Thanks. Hey, what happened to your hand?”

“The Dark One cut it off.”

“Whoa, really?” Henry stopped again, which made Killian sigh. He only wanted to be on his way so he could get out of this blasted kingdom and never again have to think about Princess Emma with her golden hair and angelic smile and soothing fingers. And her pink lips. And the cleft in her chin, the one he sometimes found himself still daydreaming about, how it invited a man to stroke it with his thumb before tapping at her lip, hoping for a soft kiss–

“…is that why you’re a pirate?”

“Why does everyone think I’m a pirate?” Killian grumbled, causing the boy to laugh.

“The hook, probably. Makes you look something fierce. And I’ve rarely seen a man line his eyes like a lady. We hanged this one pirate one time, name of Blackbeard. He had thick black eyeliner all smudged around his eyes, too.”

“Blackbeard was an ugly son of a bitch, and I was glad to see him go. Tried to steal my ship from me, as if I’d give her up so easily. But face paint is hardly the provenance of ladies, young man.”

“Oh, I know. My aunt Ruby thinks it makes men look _handsome_ ,” Henry said with disgust. Then he squinted one eye and looked up at Killian’s face. “I bet _she’d_ think you were handsome. And mom, too, probably, but she’d never say so out loud.”

Killian found himself wondering if Emma had found him handsome back then. He knew he was attractive, had used it to his advantage more times than he could count, but he always figured it was his arrogance more than anything that caught the interest of men and women alike. He hadn’t been an arrogant young man when he’d known Emma; perhaps she hadn’t looked at him and seen beauty the way he’d seen it in her.

They reached the castle doors; Henry nodded to the sentry, waving Killian forward and stepping through to a sunny courtyard filled with what appeared to be a thriving market. Even during wartime, Misthaven showed its affluence, its people well-cared for, due in part to his role as a blockade runner. He tried not to feel pride when he saw some of the wares he knew his ship helped provide–silks and spices from Agrabah, produce from tiny tropical islands that barely warranted a name, earthenware fired in the volcanoes of Fortuna. He did not do it to aid the place of his birth; he did it to stick it to the Crocodile.

“So, I can’t really guarantee Leroy will be friendly, but I’ll do my best to convince him that you need to see the Queen. It might help if I knew what it was you wanted to talk to her about, but if you don’t wanna tell me ‘cause I’m just a kid, that’s all right.”

Suddenly, Killian was filled with guilt. There he was, knowing the exact location of Henry’s mother, whom he must be missing desperately, despite his affable manner. Killian could tell that Henry was a loved child, something he himself had never known. He was filled with such fondness for Emma for providing her son a good childhood that he wished to run back to the ship simply so he could beg her forgiveness for treating her so abominably.

“Actually, lad. Stop a moment.” Henry did just that, turning to look at Killian with a trusting, earnest expression. Killian crouched down to his knee, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and trying to fix his face into something kind and approachable. “What if I told you that I knew the whereabouts of your mother?”

Henry’s eyes widened. Killian cursed his own cowardice for not bringing Emma back home himself. Cursed his own weakness, the hole in his character that prevented him from facing her one last time.

“You’ve seen my mom?”

“Aye, lad. Returned her safely, actually. She’s on my ship as we speak, preparing to return to the castle. Because of the delicacy of the situation, I did not wish to tout that she was aboard, and I would rather speak directly to their majesties so they can send their most trusted agents to fetch her, or even go themselves. I’d imagine they’re anxious to see her.”

“Is she all right?” Henry asked, his voice small as he stepped closer, his arms wrapping about his middle. Killian suddenly saw another young, freckle-faced boy inquiring after his mother’s well-being, his arms hugging himself as he was told, _no, lad. The sickness was too swift._

He shook his head to clear himself of the memory and then immediately regretted the thoughtless action when he saw Henry’s eyes widen and his shoulders droop.

“She’s fine, Henry, excellent, really! She’s been through quite a lot–many would-be ransomers locked her away like cattle, but not one hair on her head has been harmed. She’s been sleeping in my quarters since we found her, and I assure you–she’s quite well.”

“Oh.” Henry chewed on his lip in a close approximation of his own mother’s nervous habit before looking Killian square in the eye. “Then I thank you, sir, for the safe return of the crown princess.” Henry stood taller as his speech grew in formality; he broadened his shoulders and straightened his arms at his sides, almost as though he were ready to salute.

“You’re quite welcome.”

“Sir, it occurs to me that I have done you a disservice. I do not even know your name, although I’ve heard tales of the great Captain Hook, of course.”

“Have you?” Killian grinned. Henry nodded eagerly before shooting him an endearing smile and turning to plunge back into the crowd, seemingly forgetting to ask for his name. Killian had nothing to do but follow.

They passed through the market without further comment, the noise of vendors exaggerating their product and servants dickering over prices too loud to allow for any meaningful exchange. Eventually, they left the crowd and entered a quiet garden area, arched doorways flanking each side of a beautiful courtyard. Killian observed several courtiers in their finery, shooting him curious glances even as they bowed their heads to the princeling, but none stopped them on their way to see the queen and the king.

They arrived at a large stone doorway, the doors open and inviting. It was cool inside, and the quiet continued, punctuated by the sounds of their footsteps as Henry led Killian through a series of doors.

“I don’t know where Grandma is, but this is the time of day when she’s talking to the war council. Grandpa’s probably with her, or practicing swords in the family’s private garden. This way.”

Killian spread his arm out, indicating he would continue to follow the eager prince wherever he wished to take him. He admired the lad’s fortitude; he could remember a time when he was a young boy, always skipping or running toward his next destination. Then again, he supposed a royal would be taught not to behave like a child, child though it may be.

“How old are you, Henry?”

“I’ll be nine in the summer.”

“A fine age for a fine lad.”

“Grandpa says I’ll be old enough to start using a _real_ sword in my lessons.”

“An important skill, to be sure.”

“Mother always teaches me with a wooden sword, but she says I’ll be as good as Grandpa one day, if I practice hard and keep my elbows tucked.”

“Sounds about right,” Killian laughed. He _really_ liked Emma’s boy. Then, “Is the king an excellent swordsman, then?”

“The best in all the realms,” Henry said proudly. “None can defeat him.”

“I don’t know, lad,” Killian said with doubt, though he felt a grin tugging at his lips. “The only person who’s ever bested me was a woman, though there were no swords involved.”

Henry sighed, the beleaguered sound a boy made when quite done with the quips of the adults in his life.

“Let’s check the throne room first.”

Killian followed Henry through an ornately-decorated doorway, his gaze drawn upward to the vaulted ceilings and drifting over to the beautiful stained glass depicting the history of Misthaven in panel after panel.

“Good morning, your highness,” came a sweet, clear voice, making Henry and Killian turn in unison to the newcomer. Killian’s eyes widened as he dropped to his knee; he’d never met or even seen his queen, but he knew her instantly. If it weren’t for the regal carriage in her shoulders or the small pearl-studded circlet gracing her head, it was the lovely, beaming smile that looked exactly like Henry’s, and exactly like Emma’s.

“Your majesty,” Henry grinned. He raised up to his toes and pecked her cheek before taking her hand. “Grandma, I want to introduce you to someone, but we need to find Grandpa first.”

“Right here, my boy,” came a booming male voice. Killian remained on his knee, swiveling his gaze to the robust, older gentleman that approached. He could see Emma’s chin and her kind eyes on his face; the king lowered a questioning gaze to Killian’s still form, but said not a word.

“You may rise,” the Queen said softly, reaching for her husband’s hand while still holding Henry’s.

“My queen,” Killian said, then almost as an afterthought, “My king.”

“Captain,” the King nodded. Killian did not miss the guarded look in his eye as the sovereign took him in, nor the way both royal’s gazes had landed on his hook. He was amazed the guard was not instantly called; perhaps because the young prince seemed to put so much trust in him, and the royals trusted their grandson?

“Captain Hook knows where Mom is,” Henry whispered, though his version of a whisper was a bit loud for Killian’s taste.

Emma’s parents started at this revelation, the queen gasping, the king taking a step toward him, and not in a friendly manner.

“And you want the money before you’ll tell us,” he guessed, his hand hovering over the hilt of the sword at his hip. Killian bristled; he forced himself to calm, knowing that the man’s implied threat was borne out of concern for his daughter, but he also knew that he would have to keep his guard with Emma’s father.

That did not mean he was above teasing him, of course.

“Oh, I don’t want your money,” he said lightly, rocking back on his heels. He hooked his thumb at his belt buckle, raising his eyebrows and waiting. He knew it made him a right bastard, but he needed the reassurance of sticking it to his betters to assuage the guilt eating at his heart.

The Queen pressed a hand to her husband’s arm, taking a step toward Killian with a tentative smile. She was more open, but still cautious; he did not blame her one bit. After all, he apparently looked like a _pirate_.

He instantly regretted his flippant behavior when he met the Queen’s watery-eyed gaze. She smiled tremulously, clasping her hands at her middle before speaking.

“Whatever it is you want, we’ll give it to you if it brings us our daughter. Name your price, Captain.”

He did not have to think. He simply wanted Emma to be home and safe, and that was already a certainty. His other wishes and wants were not anything that could be given by just anyone, even a queen. No; what he really wanted was not within her right to give.

Not ten minutes later, as he was making his way from the throne room, he heard an exclamation followed by shouts of, “The princess! The princess is here! Someone fetch the–!”

“Emma,” he breathed. Somehow, she had gotten loose and found her own way home. It did not surprise him and in fact, it only made him admire her more.

Killian knew he ought to go, that he ought not risk being seen, but he could hardly help himself. He’d done so well keeping away from her–in the light of day, anyway. But knowing that she was mere steps from him, he could not prevent himself from being selfish one final time. He wanted one last look, one last memory to carry him throughout the rest of his life. Trying to couch the sound of his footsteps, he sneaked back to the doorway he’d just left, attempting to keep himself concealed as he slowly peered around the corner, just so he could catch one last glimpse of the woman he could finally admit that he still loved with all of his heart and likely would to the end of his days.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Emma was _furious_.

“Your highness, you can’t--”

“Mr. Smee,” she said, anger wrapped around her every word. “I like you very much, and I would like to thank you for all that you’ve done for me. But if you do not allow me to pass, I am going to throw you overboard myself.” After regarding her with a wary expression, he sighed heavily and stepped aside, the confused and concerned look in his eyes making it clear that he still did not understand how she’d gotten the best of him. As she passed, she reached up to snatch his red knit cap, pulling it over her head and stuffing her tell-tale blonde hair into it so she could pass through the kingdom undetected.

She had no wish to be sidelined by excited subjects glad for her return, or aristocrats bowing and scraping before her feet. No, Emma only wished to see four people--her son, her mother and father, and the no-good bastard scoundrel son of a bitch who’d left her behind. _Twice_.

* * *

 

By the time she’d made it to the castle, she was not only infinitely more upset, but she was exhausted and somewhat sick, not realizing that after so long at sea she’d have trouble navigating the treacherous ground that did not rise and fall with the gentle rocking of the waves. She paused, leaning against a doorway in the gardens past the market, catching her breath and wishing for a drink of water. She whipped Smee’s cap off her head, swiping at her brow and exhaling relief at the cool air rushing over her scalp and the back of her neck. Then she pinched her arm, frowning at the fleeting pain while being grateful for it; _I can do this_ , she told herself as she began her forward march once again.

Her first stop was the throne room but she found it empty; she ignored the gasp of surprise as one of the chamber maids saw her, the young woman rushing off, no doubt, to begin the gossip that the princess was finally home.

As she turned toward one of the doors leading away from the throne room, she was assaulted by a blur with dark hair and freckles.

“Mama!”

“Henry,” she whispered, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes as she wrapped her boy in her arms. She hugged him fiercely, choking on laughter when he hugged her back as hard, if not harder.

“I _knew_ he wasn’t lying.”

“Who?” she laughed, pulling away slightly to wipe at her eyes.

“Hook.”

_Hook. Where is he?_

“Emma,” gasped her mother. She turned toward the sound, smiling another watery smile at her parents as they rushed toward her.

“The princess! The princess has returned! Someone fetch the--” called Leroy before her mother shot him a furious glare. Emma rolled her eyes at Leroy’s pronouncement before her parents enveloped her in fierce hugs of their own. She melted into the familiarity, at once glad to be home and exasperated that they were all being so weepy. She knew she’d make it home safely; did they not share her faith?

“Well, he may not be a pirate, but I still don’t trust him,” Father was saying as Emma rose from his embrace.

“I know, dear, but the Captain seems honorable enough. Look, here is our daughter, returned safe, as promised.” The Queen looked at Emma fondly and she smiled; it was hard not to smile at her mother. She was so competent, so kind; Emma realized she’d missed her terribly and gave into the urge to hug her once more.

“Missed you, too,” she whispered into Emma’s ear, then louder as she straightened, “I hear you had quite the adventure. _Actual_ pirates, mercenaries, privateers. You were gone so long.”

“I was, but I did accomplish our goals,” Emma said, once again resuming her royal composure and royal duty, if not her royal wardrobe. “The agent of the Dark One has given me--”

“Later,” the Queen murmured. “For now, let’s celebrate your return. We shall have to raise a toast to Captain Hook for keeping his word; I only wish he’d agreed to stay for dinner.”

“I suppose he just wanted to collect his money and run,” Emma said, feigning nonchalance but not quite able to keep the anger and hurt from her voice.

“Oh, he didn’t take the reward,” the Queen said as she linked arms with her daughter. Henry and Father followed close behind, the four of them turning toward the royal quarters.

“Not all of it,” her father amended, sounding as suspicious as he’d been the day Neal had formally asked for permission to wed her. “He asked for ten thousand pounds to keep his men happy, which is no small amount, you know.”

“But,” Emma sputtered. “Why wouldn’t he take the rest?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to explain that,” her mother smiled. Emma paused, her mind a whirl of confused, muddled thinking until it all focused on one thing: Killian. He did not take the reward?

 _Where is that scoundrel_ , she wondered, and when her son answered her unasked question, she looked up with hope.

“He’s right there, listening in on our conversation.”

Emma looked to where Henry was pointing, and while her heart leapt at the sight of tousled hair disappearing around the frame of the far-off doorway, her eyes narrowed with renewed ire.

She marched toward him, hoping the man was ready to accept what was coming to him.

She reached the doorway, rounding it with a huff, stopping herself short when she realized he wasn’t going anywhere.

_And you won’t, not if I can help it._

She wished to have words with him.

“Why, Killian Jones, as I live and breathe.” Emma congratulated herself on her icy tone; inside she was reeling.

He was even more handsome than she remembered. It was a man before her, standing ramrod straight and looking like someone headed for the gallows. He wore a heavy and ostentatiously tooled leather coat, his black shirt similar to the one she was still wearing. She noticed he had a hook and several things made sense all at once. _I still have the hand I had made for you, you know_ , she told him silently.

When she finally met his eyes, certain they could not be as blue as she remembered, she sighed internally. Bluer, they were bluer. He had a new scar across his cheek; days-old scruff covered his jaw and chin. He was looking at her with a somber expression, his jaw flexing, but otherwise, she could not tell what he was thinking.

“Princess Emma,” was all he said, dipping into a very low, very formal bow. She hated every moment of it.

And like that, all of her fury, all of her worry, all of her confused feelings--ten year’s and a few days’ worth of it--everything coalesced into one moment. Not knowing whether she wished to kiss him or punch him, she stepped closer, opening her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

“I’m sorry I left you.”

“Which time?” she laugh-cried.

“Er, yes,” he said, and that decided it.

She reached up on her toes and hauled him to her, kissing him with a determination that filled her breast with triumph, right there in front of her son and her parents and the gods and possibly Leroy and the rest of the castle staff.

Then she dropped down to her feet, swung her arm behind her, and delivered a solid punch to his jaw.

“I suppose he’s staying for dinner _now_ ,” her father called out dryly from somewhere behind her.

* * *

Dinner was an informal affair, her parents declaring they’d hold a triumphant welcome home ball once she'd had enough rest.

Leroy had insisted that they make an announcement that the princess was returned, no harm done to her royal head. With a sigh, Emma had acquiesced, though she had not been given time to change her clothes or even speak to Killian again before being swept out onto the balcony where new members of the royal family were presented, proclamations to the kingdom were called out, and bad news was delivered. In this case, when the trumpets sounded, there were already many people milling about in the courtyard below; news of Emma’s return had spread throughout the castle and out into the village like wildfire. When she stepped out from the curtain and smiled, a great cheer went up as she waved at her people.

Then she’d been practically carried back to her rooms, a hot bath ready and waiting, her ladies-in-waiting exclaiming over the state of her hair and the fact that she was still wearing breeches.

She’d been urged to rest, and though she did not sleep, she did use the quiet to reflect on what had happened, and what might still happen.

Killian was now a guest of the royal family.

The Queen had run roughshod over his protests, insisting that there was much to discuss, and that she wished to hear all about his adventures as a privateer for the kingdom. It was hard to refuse her mother when she wasn’t using her charms to get her way; when she pulled out all the stops, it was nearly impossible for even the stubbornest of men to say no. Killian was no exception; he’d eventually given into Mother’s gentle demands, and Emma fancied that Henry’s exuberance and sweet face had had something to do with it when her son had turned to him and implored him with an earnest, “Please?”

 _No one thought to ask me if I wished for him to stay_ , she thought with irritation as Killian was whisked off to another wing of the castle, but she meekly followed her mother’s directive to go get herself cleaned up and ready to make an appearance at family dinner.

That was how she found herself hours after her supposed nap, cleaned, powdered, and back in a corset and simple evening gown. She eschewed any jewelry or headpieces, opting for a simple braid and conceding to a set of pearl-edged hair combs that Grandfather had gifted her before his passing.

She sat at Mother’s right hand with Henry directly across. Father was at the other end of the table with Killian at his right side, which Emma found enormously amusing as the King kept flashing Killian looks that were none-too-friendly, though his speech was perfectly cordial.

“So, the Admiralty tells me that you’re one of our most successful blockade runners.”

“Aye, your majesty.”

“Do you find it easy to evade the law, then?”

“David,” the Queen warned, sipping primly at her wine.

“Hey, Killian,” Henry began, meekly apologizing at Emma’s gently given look of warning. Informal dinners were no excuse for shouting across the table. “I mean, pardon me, Captain Jones. But what’s it like, running the blockade?”

“Dangerous,” Killian responded in unison with her father. The Queen hid a grin behind her goblet.

“Well, yeah. But isn’t it...I dunno,” Henry said, pushing his potatoes around with his fork. He looked up at his mother, a worried expression on his face. “Exciting?”

All eyes turned to Killian as he paused to consider his answer.

“Yes,” he said carefully. “All sea journeys are exciting. The open ocean has a lot to offer for those who crave adventure. But that isn’t why I do it.”

“Then why?” Emma asked, suddenly wishing to know. It was, after all, the reason he had left her. Was it not?

Killian spared a fleeting glance for Emma before looking at Henry. “I suppose it was so I could do something worthwhile. My brother always said that there was honor in serving one’s kingdom; when I left the navy, I still wished to contribute in some way.” He frowned at that, himself pushing his potatoes around on his plate.

“Admiral French told me about your sacrifice for us,” Mother offered quietly. “I must thank you, though belatedly. For your brother.” She glanced at his hand but said nothing about it.

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“And for your current services,” the Queen continued brightly. “That of you and your crew. I hope their accommodations are acceptable?”

“More than, Majesty,” Killian said, swallowing a mouthful from his own goblet as he looked down the table. “They’re more used to dockside taverns and questionable inns. Being put up at the finest Misthaven has to offer just may turn some of their heads. I hope I have a full complement of crewmen when it comes time to go.”

“But that won’t be for a long while yet, right?” Henry asked.

Killian flicked his gaze to Emma and away as quickly. “That all depends, lad.”

“But I--”

“Henry,” the queen said gently. She sat up, carefully setting her fork down. She lifted her goblet, tipping it in Killian’s direction. “For now, let’s simply thank the Captain for all that he’s done---for braving the front to bring us such excellent wine, for example.”

“And for bringing home an excellent daughter,” her father added. Emma smiled when Killian seemed taken aback, nodding as first Father raised his goblet, then Mother, then Henry and finally Emma.

“To Captain Jones.”

“And to excellent daughters,” Killian added, sliding his glance over to Emma. She smiled in response, her gaze lingering on his face as the servants came in to clear for the next course.

* * *

“You know, I never begrudged your visiting the hospital,” her mother told her as they walked back to their quarters. Their arms were linked, and Emma basked in the comfort of it. She could tell that this was one of those times when Mother was more friend than Queen or mother, and she always relished the opportunity to speak with her in an unguarded manner, surprised as she was at the turn of the conversation.

“You knew?”

“Do you think I’d allow my heir to traipse about without knowing where she went? I knew all about it. I even knew about your young man. I’d wondered if his leaving had anything to do with your change of heart over marriage, but since you did not seem inclined to confide in me, I did not ask. Perhaps I ought to have done so?”

“No, Mother,” Emma sighed. “Things are…”

“Complicated,” the queen finished for her. She smiled softly and patted Emma’s arm before continuing. “I wonder if I ought to have asked, but there’s nothing to be done for it now. I’m quite proud of you, Emma. You are always thinking of everyone except yourself.”

“I know,” Emma told her. “Still, I hate the thought of disappointing you. I simply don’t…”

“Like people paying court,” her mother finished for her, reaching to clasp her hand as they walked down the softly lit hallway. One of the chamber maids smiled brightly at Emma as they passed before dipping into a curtsy. “I never wished for you to give into your duty, I simply wanted--”

“Me to want to do it,” Emma sighed. “Mother, I’m ready for it now. The pomp, allowing people to pay court. All of it.”

“Are you?” Her mother’s eyes darted to her face, looking up and down before smiling the benevolent and kind smile of Snow White, beloved of her people.

“I believe so.”

“I wonder what’s changed?” There was a note of satisfaction in the queen’s voice, and while Emma wondered what it was about, she certainly did not wish to ask. They stopped at the door to Emma’s chambers, the queen leaning in to buss her cheek. “You know, while I do not doubt your ability to rule on your own, it might not be a terrible idea to start thinking about having someone at your side again.” With that none-too-subtle hint, her mother continued down the hall, leaving Emma somewhat flustered as she entered her rooms.

She tried not to think about Killian as she readied herself for bed, but she could not remove his face from her mind; finally giving in to it, she flopped down on her bed, having dismissed the maid and slipping into a careworn old night rail on her own. She had been quite surprised at the pleasant reception given to Killian by her parents; well, perhaps not Father, but it had been something of a surprise that he’d mostly behaved himself, keeping his pointed questions to ascertain Killian’s character to his time served in the navy, and his methods for procuring the goods he brought back through the blockade.

Henry’s enthusiasm for Killian’s stories was the least surprising; the boy had always dreamed of adventure, his nose often stuck in some book or other. Mother had been kindness itself, which was also not a surprise. She wasn’t one for formality, making Emma wonder if she was receptive to the possibility that her daughter, the crown princess, might have interest in a common-born, one-time lieutenant and current privateer. The one she had kissed (and then punched) in full view of her family.

Emma sighed, her mind going to the kiss itself. It had been a sloppy affair, nothing but hard lips and frustration, no give and take. Nothing like a real kiss, one that invited intimacies. It was more like...a hello. Possibly a good-bye. Oh, she did not know!

It suddenly seemed very important that she find out.

“He is sleeping,” she said aloud, not realizing she had already risen to the side of her bed. She stood with fury and began pacing.

“But he does not sleep well,” she reminded herself. Oh, what if he were having a nightmare that very moment?

The decision was made even as she was stepping into her slippers. She reached for a candle and took a deep breath.

As quiet as she was able, Emma opened her door, peering down the hallway to see whether anyone was around. She listened for a bit, the faint sounds in the distance indicating that someone, somewhere was attending to the upkeep of the castle, but none were immediately about. She took a step into the hallway and closed the door behind her, taking a deep breath before hurrying down the carpet runner and heading toward the guest wing.

Thankfully, no one was about to witness the princess on a mad dash for the room of a certain privateer that had been on her mind--well, for ten years, if she was being honest.

The first few doors Emma tried revealed empty rooms; it wasn’t until she reached the one with a door she knew to be creaky that she grimaced, pressing against the wood in an attempt to stifle the noise she knew to be coming. _Leave it to Father to give him a noisy door_ , she thought with amusement, cringing when, indeed, the hinge groaned in faint protest.

She knew in an instant that the room was occupied. She slipped inside, grateful when the door was silent as she shut it slowly.

“Killian?” she called out in a whisper. Putting her candle down on a table next to the door, she stepped toward the bed, cursing when she tripped on the rug. She could make out a rumpled shape as she drew closer, smiling at the haphazard way in which Killian took up most of the bed. The faint light coming behind from her candlestick afforded a dim view of his face, barely illuminated by the soft glow. Her smile fell when she saw the crease between his brows; he whimpered softly, and she knew he was having the dream that had been plaguing him for ten years.

Already knowing what she planned to do, she climbed up onto the bed and nestled right into him as she’d done the night before. It seemed as natural as breathing.

It did not surprise her one bit that he immediately calmed; she could feel the tension leaving his body as she curled around him. Then she herself fell into slumber, smiling drowsily when she felt a warmth wrap across her back and come to rest on her hip.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Killian.”

Emma was wrapped around him, murmuring in his ear, her body lithe and quite bare. His hand began to wander and he heard a husky laugh, smiling as he turned to the woman at his side.

“I could wake like this every day,” he told her, bringing her closer to him, feeling the pull at his groin as she moved against him.

“Killian,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “You’re dreaming again.”

“Best dream a man could hope to have,” he returned. He began to drift awake, the lovely feeling of sated bliss somehow remaining with him as he became more aware. Emma was _not_ naked and curled around him, much to his deep regret; she was, however, at his side and perched on one elbow, looking at him with a warm, sleepy smile. By the slight wash of grey-blue light filtering in from the window near his bed, she’d remained with him the entire night.

Finally accepting that he was awake, he opened his eyes to the most beautiful thing a man could ever hope to wake to: Emma, Princess of Misthaven, looking a bit rumpled and staring at him with a mixture of amusement and...something else. He could not quite tell what it was, but it filled him with unease.

After a few moments of mutual gazing, Killian smiled softly, reaching out to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. To his everlasting delight, she leaned into the movement, her cheek brushing against his hand and near stealing his breath.

_Gods, I still love this woman._

He had yet to admit that to himself, but there it was: a thought, clear and simple and undeniable. He’d been enamored with her as a young man, but it had not made his love any less pure. Over time, he’d told himself over and over that it had been a simple infatuation, a young man’s folly--a useless and unworthy boy, ignorant in the ways of love. 

Then she’d returned to his life, only he hadn’t known it was the same woman. 

_You knew_ , his heart told him. Perhaps he had. Perhaps that was why it had been so easy for him to slip back into love. Mere days in her presence, yet he had felt it the moment she’d threatened him with an old hook. As if his body recognized her before his mind did, two souls reuniting after so long and _relieved_ to have found each other once again.

“Emma,” he said softly, caressing her angelic face and smiling. “I love you.”

Her lips twisted into something terrible.

“Then you should not have left me.”

He awoke with a gasp.

Emma was nowhere to be found.

He had not dreamt _that_ , had he? That she’d come to him once again in the night? Perhaps not. His dreams had never been that kind.

It was bright in his room, the light from the sun telling him that he’d slept through the dawn. He looked over at the pillow next to him and saw with a mixture of both satisfaction and dejection that there was a dent in it; she _had_ come to him in the night, then; ever the angel trying to ease his sleep. And she had done just that--he could not recall having had any of the terrible nightmares of his past, only this new one: Emma, furious that he’d left.

Angry as he was with himself for the rightness of his dream-princess’s accusation, still, he could not find it within him to be resentful of it: Emma was, after all, his new dream.

He could allow himself that. He knew deep within that she cared for him as he did for her, even after all this time.

 _Until the end of time_.

He knew it to be true. He could accept it now. He may still be unworthy, but clearly, she did not see it that way. Rather than refuse her, he decided to give in to it. 

The Princess of Misthaven just might care for a lousy scoundrel like him.

Grinning with the acknowledgement, he rose from bed, suddenly quite eager to take the entire castle by storm, and Emma, too, if need be. He performed his morning ablutions, grateful for the hot water brought to him by a curious servant, then dressed himself with care, wishing he had thought to have something clean brought from his ship. If he was going to pursue a princess, he really ought to kit himself out in his finest.

 _Emma does not care for such things_ , his mind laughed, and he nearly laughed along with it. Utterly giddy with the thought of finding Emma, he opened the door to his guest chambers, wishing for nothing more than to find his angel and prostrate himself before her feet, begging forgiveness for ten years’ worth of dereliction of duty.

 _I will spend the rest of my life earning you back if you would only grace me with your presence in my bed_ , he told her as he marched through the castle, looking for his princess. He knew not where he was headed, knew not the layout of the land, but still: he walked with purpose. 

“Still here, I see,” came the voice of the queen behind him. He pulled up short, wincing slightly before turning to sketch a bow at her royal highness.

“My queen,” he said softly. He remained bowed down, staring at the slight sway of her skirts and waiting. Somehow, he knew the show of deference was important, despite the lack of formality the queen and king had shown at the previous night’s dinner.

His back began to protest but still he remained, waiting for his queen’s leave to rise. After what seemed five minutes but was more like one, she finally sighed prettily and told him to rise.

“Good morning, your majesty.”

“Good morning,” she said, smiling, and though her smile was lovely, it was also guarded. “Give me your arm; you’ve missed breakfast, but I’ll have Cook whip up something for our special guest.” Killian did as he was bid, crooking his elbow and taking the opportunity to marvel that a lowborn man such as himself had not only slept next to a princess, but he was now serving as escort for the Queen of Misthaven. He wasn’t certain he’d ever done anything to merit such honors, but he was beginning to accept that it was a certainty. And he’d certainly take it.

“You seem...eager,” the queen observed after a fashion. He merely grinned in response.

She nodded at several servants as they wound their way through the castle, passing several opened doors with activity that stopped as soon as their queen was sighted; she smiled at one and all, often receiving merry winks and stifled giggles in response. _These people really love their queen_ , he thought, glancing down at her from time to time. And he could see why--she seemed to show genuine care and concern for her people, sometimes stopping to ask after an errand boy’s mother or scolding a maid with a bandaged arm to take it easy and have a care when cleaning the highest windows.

“Your people love you,” he pointed out as they headed down a wide hallway deep in the castle. He sensed they were underground by the lack of windows and natural light, several torches the only thing lighting their way. 

“You cannot receive love unless it is first granted freely,” she said, giving him a sidelong glance as they approached an open doorway. There was a flurry of activity coming from inside and he guessed why before they entered: it was the castle kitchens, and he looked around with wonder as she led him inside. The room opened up, large and wide, the ceiling high and revealing many windows in the vault. There were several open fires with cauldrons bubbling merrily, the steam and vapors filling the entire space with a warm, comforting smell. An older woman with her hair haphazardly tied into a bun at the back of her head was wielding a spoon like a sword, yelling at several scullery maids and footmen as she marched about, commanding her kitchen like a general preparing for battle.

“Scrape the bottom so that it don’t stick, girl! And you,” she snarled at some poor boy. “I saw that. Those are for our guest.”

“Granny,” the queen laughed, calling out to the woman. All activity stopped as the entire kitchen turned to the door, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of their sovereign on the arm of a piratical man. 

The older woman approached them as the rest of the kitchen bowed and curtsied; Granny did not. She stopped just before them and eyed Killian up and down with skepticism before remembering herself; she offered a hasty curtsy to the queen but kept a beady eye on him the entire time.

“This the boy?” she grunted, flipping her wrist and pointing her spoon at him.

“Granny Lucas, this is Captain Jones.”

“You returned our girl to us,” Granny said flatly. She tilted her chin down, her glasses sliding down her nose so she could see him better, he supposed.

“Aye, Mrs. Lucas.” He dipped his head in a show of respect, which might have worked had he not been smirking. She met his gaze and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Granny. It’s just Granny. Sit.” 

Killian kept his laughter to himself, but inwardly he marveled at the decidedly informal tone the entire kingdom of Misthaven seemed to adopt.

Everything he’d ever thought about the nobility seemed to be in error, where the royals were concerned, anyway. 

_I have been so wrong about a great many things._

“Here,” Granny grunted. She snapped her fingers and a young lass stepped forward, passing over a plate piled with pastries. His nostrils were assailed by a wonderful, familiar smell. The platter of delights was presented to him by the cantankerous cook, and when his eyes landed on a particular confection, he felt a catch in his throat at the sweet sense of nostalgia that stole over him.

It was one of the chocolate croissants Emma had brought him in the hospital so long ago.

He could not decide whether to savor it, eat it slowly, relish in the memory, but as it was he was quite famished, and he polished the delectable treat off in three bites. Eying him with approval, Granny pushed the platter toward him before waving at another of the kitchen girls. A mug with steam wafting over it was placed before him, and he sipped deeply, sighing in appreciation at the glorious burn of excellent coffee sliding down his throat.

“Eat up. Too skinny,” Granny said, turning and walking away, but not before he saw a small smile cross her lips.

Aware that a queen stood next to him, Killian pushed his mug away, feeling warm and wonderful here in the kitchens of the castle that had raised his princess. Mere thoughts of her brought a smile to his face, and he glanced toward the ceiling and the rest of the castle, wondering where she was and what she was doing.

As if she could read the turn of his thoughts, the queen smiled broadly, reaching out with her hand and saying, “Come, Captain. We have much to discuss.” Taking his queen’s hand and pressing a light kiss there, he stood and stopped to face the kitchen staff.

“Mrs. Lucas, I have sailed to all the corners of this realm and I must say, I’ve never tasted anything as marvelous as this. Truly, you are a wonder.” With a wink and a grin he turned, the queen laughing at his side as he heard behind him, “It’s just Granny, you rascal!”

“She’s a tough nut to crack,” the queen commented as they made their way from the kitchens. Killian hummed in response but otherwise held his tongue; he was feeling too good, too warm--it was amazing how wonderful he felt with a good night’s rest and a belly full of treats. The Queen continued with a smile, “You do seem capable of charming all of the ladies, Captain.”

“Some more than others,” he responded, careful to not sound too eager. He must have been wearing his heart on his sleeve, something both Liam and Milah had laughingly pointed out was a fault of his on more than one occasion.

Funny, how thoughts of his old loves did not fill him despair as they often tended to do.

“Captain Jones--:

“Killian. It’s just Killian,” he grinned, acknowledging the old adage about when in town, do as the locals do.

“Killian, then,” she said. She paused and dropped his arm, turning to face him with a searching look. “My daughter is very important to a great deal of people. She will one day rule this kingdom, and I know she will do so with all of her being. I do not say this as her queen, but as her mother: she has a very large heart, and it is a full thing, brimming over with her need to protect all she holds dear. I’ve always wondered if she would ever overcome the hurt sustained when she was but eighteen; I see now that the answer is no.”

“My queen--” he began.

“Captain,” she chuckled, placing a gentle hand on his arm and then squeezing this side of hard. “It can be fatal to interrupt this particular queen.”

“Apologies, my lady,” he said solemnly, bowing his head to hide the quirking of his lips. “Pray, continue.”

“My daughter is important to me,” she continued softly. She stepped toward him, and though he was a good head taller than her, even with the bejeweled circlet gracing the crown of her head, he felt the threat in her stance. “If you are going to run like you did all those years ago, I’d just as soon you did it now. Because if you hurt her again,” and here she stepped away, a broad and terrible smile punctuating her gently spoken words, “the bounty I put on your head will be so great that you’d have to leave this realm to escape capture. Dead or alive, of course.”

“Far be it from me to defy my queen,” he quipped, though he had to admit, he did feel a touch out of sorts at being threatened with death from this petite woman. Perhaps because he knew that much like Emma, Snow White meant every word she spoke. That she had both the bollocks and the wealth to back up her claims was what, he supposed, made her such an effective ruler. That, and her ability to earn love and respect. He was feeling a little bit enamored of her himself, and he’d only known her a day.

Funny, how accepting inevitable love seemed to open his heart that much wider.

“We shall see,” the Queen said, but he knew he was not imagining the twinkle in her eye as she began to walk again.

Killian followed along in her wake, continually amused by the subjects that approached, giving their bows or curtsies before speaking with their queen. They all seemed to look to her for counsel as well as sovereignty; she settled disputes with aplomb while accepting posies from darling little girls and patting the heads of little boys. She even confirmed the rumors he’d heard over the years when they entered an open courtyard, several birds twittering in a mass of feathers and squawks and landing in two rows, as if lining the path she walked as she spoke to them.

And he was _quite_ certain they all turned beady eyes to him, some with suspicion. 

“Even the ravens love you, highness,” he chuckled.

She responded by reaching deep into her skirts and producing a handful of birdseed.

 _I could easily die for this queen_ , he thought to himself. _And her daughter_. It was so anathema to his former impressions of the aristocracy, but there he was. Love and a golden-haired angel had put him at odds with himself.

 _Where is she?_ he wondered, realizing it had to be mid-morning, and he still had not seen her.

Passing down the bird-lined lane through the gardens while the queen held conversations with both robins and courtiers alike, Killian began to compose his apology to Emma, pushing away the slight guilt when his mind asked _and then what?_

_Do you suppose you’ll stop privateering? Become what, one of these courtiers? Wear finely tailored clothes that would be ruined if exposed to two days of salt and sun?_

He did not know. 

“I must meet with the council now,” the queen said, interrupting him from his thoughts. He turned to face her with a bright smile, ready to ask after her daughter, when she said, “Emma will be with me all day, so I’m afraid you won’t be seeing her until we dine. Do you suppose you can keep yourself entertained until dinner?” Without waiting for an answer, she swept away, and Killian was left standing there, disappointed and wondering what to do.

Since he’d been left alone, he decided to visit with his crew--but to tell them what, he did not know. As he made his way toward the town, he was waylaid by the young prince, once again eating a fruit and beaming a bright smile at Killian as he joined him on his walk.

“Mom’s pretty busy,” Henry said, shoving three orange slices in his mouth and swiping at the juice running down his chin.

“Aye,” Killian sighed, though it was hard to remain dejected when it was such a beautiful day. Misthaven really was a beautiful place; he hadn’t exactly missed it any of the times he was at sea, but returning always filled him with lovely nostalgia. The place of his birth was full of both bustle where there were people and bucolic beauty in the countryside; he wondered whether he would ever be afforded the opportunity to discover all of its secrets, or whether he was destined to a life at sea.

Either way, he knew now that he needed to live a life that had Emma in it. And it was up to her whether she wanted the same with him.

“Where are we going?”

Killian smiled at the boy at his side. “I am headed to the docks to speak with my men.”

“Excellent! I’ve always wanted to meet pirates!”

“Henry--”

“I know, I know,” the boy said, waving dismissively. “Not pirates. The closest I’ll get to them, anyway.”

“The gods willing,” Killian muttered.

As they made their way toward the lodgings where his crew was being put up, Killian regaled Henry with some of the more sordid tales in his arsenal, telling the boy exactly the sorts of things a young man would want to hear, minus the worst of the bloodshed. By the time they reached the Avenging Siren, Henry’s eyes were filled with stars and adventure, and Killian wondered whether Emma would be overly annoyed with him for filling her son’s head with his stories.

They entered the inn, Killian observing that his crew took up several tables and questioning the wisdom of bringing the prince of the land to such a place, but it was far cleaner and somewhat less disreputable than most of the taverns he’d seen in his day. He introduced Henry to the men, ignoring their over-awed looks and asking them to behave, much as they were able. Knowing he’d have to answer to Henry’s mother later for the coarse language the boy was about to endure, Killian turned to Smee, giving him a significant look before turning to an empty table at the back of the public room.

“Have we received payment, Captain?” Smee asked without preamble, sitting down and waving at the tavern wench to bring them drinks. Killian refused his tankard, wishing to keep a clear head for when he met with his princess later.

“Not as of yet,” Killian responded, not knowing how to broach the topic without coming off as squirrelly or indecisive. 

“Then when?”

“There are mitigating factors at play, Smee.”

His bosun knew him too well. 

“Captain. What’s to keep us here in Misthaven? We received word that the watered silk from Glowerhaven is ripe for the picking, and I would hate for--”

“I’m aware of the missive, Smee.”

“It’s a time-sensitive cargo run, sir.”

“Then perhaps we won’t have time for this one.”

“Sir!” Smee said, aghast. To be fair to the man, Killian had never given up the chance to make a quick and easy score.

“Smee.”

“Sir. Begging your pardon, but what’s keeping us from simply demanding our payment and setting sail? What could possibly keep us in Misthaven for longer than necessary? Admittedly, the accommodation here is a bright spot, and I have never had anything quite like those chocolate croissants sent to us from the castle. What possible reason do we have to stay?”

And here Killian had heard enough.

“Smee. My reasons are my own. Question them again at your peril.”

With that, he stood abruptly, stalking over and informing Henry that it was time to go.

* * *

Hours later, Killian was dressing himself for dinner. After sending Henry on his way, he’d gone down to the Jolly Roger and thrown several pieces of clothing into a sack, hoping he could cobble together something that resembled respectability. And a good thing, too--he’d been stopped by Leroy on his way back to his room, the man begrudgingly informing him that dinner was to be a formal affair, and his presence as a guest of the castle and hero of the hour was requested.

“I have hanged several frock coats and other articles in your wardrobe, if you have need of them,” Leroy grunted as Killian had let himself into his room. He eyed the fine clothes, scoffing at the frills and fripperies but running his hand down one coat in particular that he thought might suit him. 

As the dinner hour approached, he began to pace like a caged animal. He knew he needed to be patient; it had been ten years, after all; what was a few more hours when it came to seeing his angel? Sighing, he attempted to tie a cravat for the fourth time, utterly disgusted by what was required of a gentleman to simply eat. In a fit of pique he ripped the offending cloth from his neck, tossing it aside and telling himself that all of the courtiers would assume he was a pirate, anyway; might as well look the part. He removed the coat provided by Leroy and shrugged into his own leather, then stood in front of the mirror and looked himself over, “Dashingly handsome,” he muttered aloud, opening one more button on his shirt and winking at his own reflection nervously. 

Dinner itself was nothing like the informal affair from the previous night. No, this was a meal whose purpose was showing the castle and its inhabitants to its advantage; there were around forty seated about the table, all told, people Killian knew he’d never give a damn about, most of them flashing him looks that were suspicious, appreciative, or some combination of both. Several women (and two men) seemed to be particularly fascinated with him, and he already knew he’d receive several indecent proposals before the meal’s end. Luckily, he was seated next to Henry, later learning it was at the boy’s request; unluckily, he was once again as far from Emma as possible.

And she did not look at him once the entire meal.

It had been years since he’d eaten at a fine table with courses served with much pomp and grandeur; seven courses were served, and it grated on him to have to wait for each dish. Several of the nobles attempted to engage him in conversation, and while he answered their queries politely, it was not with the comfort and engaging charm he normally used when with others; he was too aware the entire time that he was quite out of his depth eating with Lord This and Lady That. 

“I hate it, too,” Henry whispered to him during the pudding.

And then it was announced that the princess was tired, and she wanted to thank everyone for coming to see her, she assured them she was quite well and eager to continue with her duties, but she needed to get her rest.

Killian returned to his room, disappointed that she hadn’t said a word to him all day. But, he had always known that she had better things to do than give him her full attention. It would be rather hard to get used to that, he supposed.

He was quite surprised when just as he was drifting to sleep, he heard the tell-tale squeak of hinges followed by the soft padding of feet, and the turn of a lock.

When Emma climbed into his bed and curled around him, she finally had something to say to him.

“Sleep well, Captain.”

* * *

Once again, she was gone by morning. He could not say for certain that she was doing it to give him a taste of his own medicine, for she was not cruel, but he rather _did_ deserve it. 

* * *

Several days passed in this manner. Emma was quite busy during the day; he got the sense from speaking with others as he slowly made friends around the castle that her activity was quite surprising; she had always been involved in the goings-on of the kingdom, but now she seemed to be attacking her duties with aplomb, embracing her title and the duties that came with it. All were surprised, but pleasantly so. It seemed they’d all been waiting for Emma to begin leading them, and they were all ready to accept her role as their future queen.

He was proud of her, really he was. But dammit, what did a man have to do to get some time with the woman he loved so that he could actually inform her that he loved her?

Yes, several days passed with Killian growing frustrated over the lack of time he got with her. But several nights also passed, and each night, Emma came to him, curling into his warmth and easing his sleep. 

He knew he would have to talk to her soon, for he did not wish to alienate the woman who seemed to have cured him of the nightmares that had plagued him for so long. 

* * *

“Captain Jones, you are needed in the kitchen,” the king announced, coming into the small dining room where Killian was breaking his fast. It had been one week since he’d returned with the princess; one week of waiting patiently for a chance to speak with her; one week where all he’d gotten were her nights. Then again, he supposed that was the entirety of their relationship--excellent nights, and nothing by day.

Killian sat back, resting his hand and hook on his belly and regarding his sovereign with a wary eye.

“All right.” He stood and bowed his head in deference, not without smirking as he met the king’s eye. He turned to leave, but he practically felt the man’s stare as he stepped away.

“I don’t dislike you, you know.”

“Quite the compliment,” Killian chuckled, turning and hooking his thumb in a belt loop. “Does it mean you like me, then?”

“I find it hard to dislike what my grandson clearly enjoys.”

“He’s a delight, and will make an excellent ruler one day.” The King beamed with real pleasure before getting a serious look on his face.

“Has anyone ever told you that I was not born a gentleman?” Shocked at the abrupt change in subject, Killian could do nothing but gape. The king chuckled, “I was a shepherd before I met Snow.”

“I knew your meeting was unorthodox, but how--”

“Long story. This is courtesy of the first meeting with my fair wife.” He pointed at a scar across his chin, and Killian laughed.

“That seems quite in line with the lady’s character. She’s threatened to kill me already, you know.”

“That’s my girl,” the king said proudly. Then his smile died down once again as he crossed his arms. “Now, in regards to my other girl. As I understand it, the story of you two isn’t quite finished?”

“I hope not, your majesty.”

“David. It’s just David. Maybe even Dave, one day, but we’re not there just yet.” Killian grinned and the king continued. “So, here are some words from the shepherd who became a king: don’t hide the truth from her, ever. You have nothing to worry about from her parents, for we both trust her judgment, and while she’s never much gone after anything she wanted, it seems that she wants you.”

“I’m not so sure about that, mate,” Killian muttered. The king fixed him with an intent stare before speaking once again.

“You’ve got a way to go, I think, but the lengths you’ve gone must count for something. Tonight’s ball might make things easier on you.”

“Blasted ball, I’d nearly forgotten,” Killian interrupted, and this time the king glared at him.

“I’ve been planning this thing for five days now, and you _will_ attend.”

“Sure thing, Dave.”

“Hook,” the king warned, which really made him only want to do it again. “Dance with my daughter tonight. And do remember, if you hurt her--”

“Your wife will string me up by the bollocks and use my carcass for target practice, got it. You needn’t read me the parental act, your majesty. Your wife is far better at it than you, anyway.”

Killian grinned as Dave rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. He turned, muttering about pirates under his breath, but Killian was enjoying himself far too well to be annoyed by it.

 _It seems that she wants you_.

Well, if Emma had been talking to her father about him, then he’d have to take it as a good sign.

He walked off toward the castle kitchens with a whistle on his lips and a song in his heart, hoping he could find something to distract himself all day while he waited to take Emma into his arms at her welcome home ball later that evening.

* * *

He ended up being late for the ball; Granny had wanted his opinion on a new treat she was making for the princess--a cinnamon-and-sugar cookie dipped in chocolate, and it was rather amazing how tiring one cranky old woman could be. He was both amused and touched that she had waited with an anxious expression on her face as he bit into the warm and soft confection--amused that she seemed to be seeking his approval, and touched that the cantankerous woman had warmed to him.

“Why, Mrs. Lucas. Can it be assumed that you approve of me?”

Granny scowled at him. “Go get dressed, you pirate. If you’re going to woo my girl, you ought to look like a fawning swain. And wipe that smirk off your face, boy.” She’d swatted at him with her spoon, the line between her brows disappearing as he swiped two cookies before making for his room.

The ball was not until later in the evening, so he made his way slowly, winking at blushing maids as they passed and marveling that he’d settled into life in the castle without really noticing. _Perhaps I could make a go of it here_ , he thought to himself, though he wondered whether he’d be able to resist the siren call of the sea. Even now she called to him, his blood ever pulsing in her direction, but his heart. Oh, his heart that pumped that very blood now beat furiously at the mere thought of a princess who seemed to still be angry with him for leaving.

 _I shall win her over,_ he told himself, dusting the sugar from his hands and shrugging out of his old leather coat. He lay down on the counterpane of his bed and drifted off with thoughts of Emma’s ire and smiles lulling him to sleep.

When he woke many hours later, he was quite confused; never had he been able to sleep during the day, not even before the nightmares had descended. Now, not only was his slumber undisturbed at night, but it seemed that he was able to rest during the day. Fascinating!

When he glanced at the mantle clock above his fireplace, he was startled; the ball had already begun! Cursing his new-found ability to sleep, he quickly donned a fresh set of clothes, still eschewing the cursed cravat but giving into the urge to wear the finely tailored coat that Leroy had left him for the formal dinner. It fit almost perfectly across the shoulders, but he was not used to the slim cut down his waist smoothing just so over his hips. He was somewhat surprised at the picture he presented as he regarded himself in the mirror; _too poncey?_ he wondered, not knowing what to make of it.

_I almost look like a gentleman._

But that would not do; he clicked his hook in place and rummaged around in the pocket of his leather greatcoat until he found the kohl he kept there. Smearing some carefully around his eyes, he stepped away from the mirror and smirked with satisfaction. 

Killian Jones, gentleman pirate. The picture was complete.

The castle was mostly empty as he made his way toward the grand ballroom he’d passed several times over the week; a few of the footmen grinned at him as he passed, and a few loitering ladies gave him the once-over with raised brows and appreciative smirks. He tipped his head and waved his hook with a flourish at all of them; when he reached the doors, Leroy was there, his lips pressed into a flat line as he regarded him. Killian stepped forward and whispered into the short man’s ear; Leroy rolled his eyes but otherwise said nothing until making his announcement.

“Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger and Misthaven.”

Several eyes turned toward him as he passed through the doors and descended an ostentatious double stairway; he only sought one set of them. Emma’s.

He found her instantly. She was at the head of the receiving line and he stepped forward, noticing with consternation that she had turned away from him. She was not smiling, but he thought he could detect something interesting on her face--relief.

“Are you sure you aren’t a pirate?” Henry whispered as Killian bowed before him, giving him a cheeky grin and nodding as Killian rose.

“Hook,” the king said. He nodded, and to Killian, it felt something like approval.

“Captain,” the queen said gently. Now--Killian was no master of royal protocol, but he knew that he was quite shocked when he bowed for his queen, only to have her put one hand on his shoulder as he rose and step forward. She dipped her head and murmured, “Lean down a little,” before reaching up to press a kiss at first one cheek then the other. He was frozen in place; a susurration of whispers behind him rose in pitch until it was a gentle buzz of voices in the background. 

“Thank you for returning our daughter to us,” the queen said louder, he assumed, for the benefit of those gathered. “We are quite in your debt.”

“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you,” he said gently, not loud enough for any to hear, but he was quite certain that Emma herself heard it.

And then it was time to pay his respects to his princess.

“Your highness,” he whispered, dropping into the lowest bow he could. When he rose, her face was a blank slate, but he could see something brimming in her eyes--was she overset? Was she _up_ set? What in the bloody hell was the woman thinking?

“Killian,” she whispered back. They stood there staring at one another for untold moments. Everything around them faded--the noise of the crowd, Leroy continuing to call out names, Henry’s laughter. All he knew was that he was finally standing before Emma, and she was looking at him like...he did not know what. But he was determined to find out.

The spell was broken as the sound of the orchestra up on a balcony began to get louder, the sweet and inexorable pull of a single violin calling for dancers to make their way to the center of the ballroom. _Excellent_.

“My lady, my princess,” Killian said softly, stepping forward to claim her hand. “Would you do me the great honor of dancing with me?” She nodded, but it was her eyes that told him that she accepted. Feeling a bit emotional himself, he turned their clasped hands before them, leading her to the center of the ballroom, where a princess like her deserved to be. And finally, she spoke to him.

“Are you saying you know how to do...this?” There was humor in her voice, humor and something else. He smirked, stepping forward and gently resting his hook at her waist. He looked down into her face-- _so beautiful_ , he thought--and raised their still-clasped hands to the level of her shoulders.

“That I do. We were taught back in the naval academy. Waltzing is easy, but there is a trick to it, of course.” He was not unaware that she was watching his lips as he murmured, low enough for only her to hear.

“And what’s that?” she said solemnly, though there was a smile in the eyes of green that could not seem to look away from him.

“Find a partner who knows what she’s doing.” And with that, they were swept away by the music, and each other.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we earn the e rating

Emma could hardly contain her impatience. All week long she’d wanted to talk to him, to have a moment alone. And yet, there was no time.

_You could make time._

She sighed every time a new thing came up. Embracing her duty, accepting that she was ready for her destiny as the princess--could she possibly have that while also having what she wanted? 

For she refused to deny it. She wanted Killian. And she thought he wanted her, too, else why would he remain in the castle?

All week long it was meeting with this ambassador and that lord, and sitting in on her mother’s various war counsels, doing her best to listen intently on all that was involved in running a kingdom. And yet, the entire time--a corner of her mind was reserved for Killian, and what she would say to him had she but a moment to spare. By the time they would sit down to dinner she was exhausted, and she did not wish to speak to him when others were about.

As it turned out, she could only give him her nights. And as she climbed into his bed and wrapped herself around him each night, she was so relieved to simply be near him that she had not the heart to interrupt his sleep to talk. In those quiet moments, she allowed herself to be with him, to give herself those small comforts. Sleeping with the man she loved, giving him the sleep he needed, and giving herself what she wanted: to be with him.

But all the while, she knew they needed to actually talk. 

Her father had spent the entire week planning her blasted welcome home ball, and as she sat in on meetings and learned how to rule like a queen, she began to look at the ball as an opportunity: one in which she could speak to Killian alone and ascertain whether he planned on staying, perhaps permanently.

It was all very exciting, and also very vexing.

But Emma would eventually have to learn to exercise patience, so she looked at all of it with as an opportunity to become a more effective ruler.

Even if it meant delaying what she now considered to be inevitable.

Every morning she would wake before dawn, look down at the face she loved with such quiet desperation, and reluctantly climb from his bed. _Soon, we shall talk,_ she told him silently as she padded away from his room, getting ready for the next order of business while hoping she could at least catch glimpses of him throughout the day. 

She certainly heard all about him. Henry had excitedly explained how he’d met _actual_ sailors (and she vowed to berate Killian for exposing her son to such language!). Her mother had smilingly told her that Killian had charmed the glasses right off the harshest judge of character in the entire kingdom. Why, even Father had begrudingly told her with a kiss to her temple that “your pirate doesn’t seem too terrible.” Her maid told her that Killian was much admired down in the servant’s quarters, for both his face and his irreverent charm. The lords and ladies who continued to bow and scrape asked after the castle’s newest guest and whether the rumors were true that he was a prince from a far-off kingdom, there to woo their princess away from the local gentry or whether he was there to take a less lofty bride.

It was hard to hold a civil tongue then, the ladies looking as though there was a particularly delicious dessert waiting to be consumed in the privacy of their bedchambers.

 _He is mine,_ Emma wanted to growl. Instead, she smiled serenely, taking a page from her mother’s rule book about how to deal with the gossip that was an unavoidable part of court life.

The evening of the ball, she had dressed with care, squeezing herself into the worst corset in her arsenal because she wished to wear a bright red dress she’d never had the occasion to show in front of the kingdom. She even allowed for one of mother’s tiaras to be pinned into place on her head, eyeing herself critically and knowing that Killian wouldn’t give one good damn about how she looked, but it did not matter. She wished to look good. She wished to look enticing.

She had waited a week to be with him--hell, she had waited ten _years_ to be with him. And tonight, she would _not_ be denied.

With the lush feeling of an extravagant set of white silk stockings tied in place with pink ribbon around her thighs, she made her way to the grand ballroom, anticipating the moment Killian would see her. 

And as the hours passed and he did not arrive, Emma did her best to keep the serene smile on her face. But as every person was announced and it was not the Captain Hook she’d grown to love, she felt the fissures in her heart that had begun to heal over begin to bow and buckle once again.

 _He did not leave me_ again, she kept thinking with despair. And anger. As the hour had approached ten, she considered fleeing her own ball, visitors and her parents be damned. Henry began to yawn and she told herself that when her son’s eyes started to droop, that would be when she would make her excuses. She’d just convinced herself that a graceful exit was the only way she would be able to save face when she’d heard Leroy’s voice ring out through the ballroom.

“Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger and Misthaven.”

She’d frozen in place, not wanting to look. _He is here! He is here._

Of _course_ he hadn’t left.

And then before she knew what to do with herself, he was whisking her off to the center of the ballroom, just as the dancing was beginning.

She wanted to be mad at him for making her wait, but as she looked up into his face and barely heard the soft words pouring from his lips, she simply could not hold any of the fury that had been seeping from her skin the entire week and really, the entire decade.

 _He is_ here _._

“Pick a partner who knows what she’s doing,” he told her, grinning roguishly as he swept her away into the waltz. Truly, he was a wonderful dancer, her body responding to the commands of his automatically, as though they’d done this a thousand times before. Did he think she knew what she was doing? She barely perceived her feet stepping in time with his as they made their way across the ballroom.

They barely spoke the entire dance, merely smiling at each other’s smiles and whispering monosyllables she did not even remember. She was too happy, too warm, too entirely caught up in the moment and in being in his arms, there before the gods and her parents and her son and the entire kingdom. 

When the waltz ended he released her--with reluctance, she was certain of it--and sketched her a short bow. 

_Do not go_ , she silently begged. She did everything she could to convey that with her eyes, but he was looking everywhere but at her.

“I, uh,” he mumbled, scratching behind his ear in discomfort. “I shall take you back to your parents, then.” Another dance was called--a reel this time--and he crooked his elbow as dancers began to take the floor, but Emma did not wish to go.

“Captain Jones,” she said softly, ignoring his elbow in favor of clasping his hand. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for the next set?”

His slow, answering grin was worth the entire week’s worth of his absence in her life.

“Highness,” he murmured, squeezing her hand in response and leading her to her rightful place at the head of the line. He leaned over just before twirling her to her spot with an ostentatious flick of his wrist. It was neatly done, and she could not help her own grin. “Two dances in a row with a rogue like me? People will talk.”

“Let them,” she said haughtily, lifting her chin in a regal manner, though she could not help the sparkle in her eyes, nor did she want to.

“Scandalous,” he whispered as he took his place across from her.

The entire night continued thus. Emma was quite aware that more than two dances with a gentleman was tantamount to an engagement announcement; by the time the third dance was called (a minuet), the whispers of the entire court competed with the soaring of the violins for noise. 

By the supper dance--another reel--it seemed that no one in the room could take their eyes off of the Princess of Misthaven, who seemed intent on paying attention to none but her pirate-like suitor.

For Killian was pulling out all the stops with raillery and flirtation, as if he’d been saving it up the entire week.

“You look well, Princess.”

“And you look--”

“Dashing, I know.”

“Shameless,” she laughed as they circled around one another. The steps of the dances brought them away from each other often, and she needed those moments to gather her wits. Every time they came back together, Killian looked at her as if he had been waiting days to see her. His eyes were dark and intense as he looked her up and down for the tenth time in as many minutes, his mouth quirking at the corner as if he was attempting to keep at bay whatever outrageous thing he would say next.

“You cut quite the figure in that dress, Emma.” 

“This corset is impinging on my ability to breathe.”

“Aye, but your discomfort is a cross I’m willing to bear.”

“Are you saying _you_ wish to wear this corset? I’ll gladly take it off and hand it over.”

He fixed her with a smouldering stare as he stepped away. Her heart raced as she impatiently waited for him to come back to her again. And he did not disappoint.

He raised his arm and fitted it over hers, spinning her about as he leaned in and whispered, “I do hope you allow me to help you take it off, Highness.”

_Oh._

Would this infernal ball never end?

And then it was supper, and her parents appeared out of nowhere, her father escorting her to the dining hall on his arm. She awaited a royal reprimand, but she was surprised but what he said.

“Have a care, Emma.” She opened her mouth to protest that she was a grown woman and knew her own mind, but then he continued. “I’d hate to have to duel with a pirate should you find yourself in an interesting condition.”

“Father!”

“Perhaps you could mention to him that it’s not exactly proper to look at you as if he is going to devour you the moment he gets you alone. Which will, I assume, be long after there is a ring on your finger.”

“I have many rings, Father,” she said, blushing slightly as he led her to her seat at the table.

“I know, Daughter,” he said. He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles, then rose to buss her cheek. “And I know you know your own mind. Just...does he _have_ to look at you as though he’s...intent on plundering?”

“Not a pirate,” she sighed, but he merely laughed.

“In this, he is,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

Supper was interminable. Killian was seated next to Mother, and every time Emma caught him looking at her (which was nearly the entire meal), she could not help but recall Father’s words.

_Intent on plundering._

_Devour you the moment he gets you alone._

She gulped her wine and ignored all of the food.

And still, after supper there was _more_ dancing.

Emma felt a bit at odds, so when the first dance was called, she sought out her son, who was practically yawning into her face the entire time. He was all sleepy smiles and chattering endlessly about a young lady named Violet, but other than that, the only thing he had to say to her was, “I like him, Mama. Killian, I mean. Is he staying?”

“I hope so,” she told him.

And then it was just one last dance--another waltz, and before she could seek him out, Killian was at her side.

“May I?”

“Yes,” she whispered, a soft thrill racing down her spine as he--well. Looked at her as if he was going to devour her.

 _Please do_ , she begged silently. She took his hook and placed it at her waist, then laced her fingers with his as he lifted both their arms at the level of her shoulder. The waltz began and as he took the first step in the square, he pulled her close until her chest touched his--a definite breach of propriety that had her gasping in delight.

“Killian!” she hissed joyfully. 

“Yes?” he asked, his voice all unaffected nonchalance. She squeezed his shoulder harder than strictly necessary; he answered by lowering his left arm, and though it could have easily been an accident, she knew it was not when his hook brushed over the swell of her rear, the tip of it tickling the back of her thigh.

She answered by pressing down on his shoulder and leaning up to breathe into his ear, his own breath catching as her lips brushed his skin. 

“If you leave again without so much as a good-bye, I will find you and end you.”

“All right, Emma,” he said.

“Good,” she whispered in response. The rest of their waltz passed in silence, but it was a pleasantly tense sort of silence punctuated with more whispers from the crowd as it became quite clear to one and all that Her Royal Highness the Princess Emma was rather intent on allowing her piratical suitor to continue to hold her as if he did not wish to let go.

And then before she knew it the ball was over, and she was still in his arms. She heard a loud clearing of a throat behind her and recognized it as the disapproving ahem of a father at wit’s end; regretfully, she released her tight hold on Killian and turned to go, not before feeling him squeeze her hand. She turned back to face the man she loved so well, taken aback by the emotion she saw blazing in his eyes. He flipped her hand palm-up in his, leaning down to brush his lips over her wrist. The slight touch sent a frisson of delight racing down her spine, settling somewhere deep down inside. 

“Will you come to me tonight, Emma?”

“Shh,” she said, darting her glance toward her father, who was regarding the two of them with a menacing glower, his arms crossed as the entire court watched. “People will hear.”

“Your highness,” he said softly, rising to stand until he was looking down at her, his eyes filled with dark promise. “I really don’t give a fuck. Will you come to me?”

“Yes,” she hissed, drawing her hand away and turning to go once again. She turned to look at him just as she reached her father. 

He was still staring, his eyes narrowed and focused on only her.

“Go,” she mouthed. She turned back to her father and fixed her face in a bland expression of neutrality, but she was quite certain she was flushed as he took her arm and led her with purpose toward the family’s quarters.

It was a good thing Emma was not a proper princess, for when she opened the door to her room later and saw a suspicious dwarf or two milling about and avoiding her accusatory, “Really?” stare, she darted back inside, already planning her escape. She regretted the subterfuge but there was nothing to be done for it; mostly, she regretted that she could not sneak off to his rooms still wearing her corset and stockings, for she thought Killian might appreciate undressing her, and she grinned with the thought that it was something they could save for another time.

Thankfully, her chambers had many windows, and she was not averse to climbing trees, though it was made somewhat difficult considering she was wearing a night rail and dressing gown.  As it was, by the time she was able to get away, it was nearly two in the morning. She crept into Killian’s room, worried he would think she had changed her mind, but really, she ought to have known better.

“My father posted a guard at my door,” she whispered into the dark, shrugging out of her robe and crawling into the bed before sprawling out across his chest. She felt the rumble of his laughter, the coziness of his body and her desperate flight through the night making her quite sleepy.

“I’m amazed there isn’t a guard at _my_ door,” he laughed. He wrapped his arm about her and she felt the warmth of his mouth at the top of her head. He kissed her hair and sighed contentedly, and honestly, Emma had never felt better in her life than she did when in the arms of Killian Jones.

As they settled into each other, Emma became aware that Killian’s heart was racing. Hers seemed to be matching it in pace; she did not know whether it was due to the excitement of evading her parents’ obvious attempts at maintaining her respectability or whether it was due to an entire evening’s worth of slowly built, simmering desire.

Then she yawned.

Killian’s arms squeezed about her, his hand rubbing circles across her spine. She groaned with pleasure; she had not realized she carried such tension in her shoulders until he eased it so well.

“Sleep, Emma,” he murmured into her hair.

“But--”

“Sleep.” He patted her back twice and then rubbed again. “We have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere.”

She smiled happily, her tension easing as she lay in his arms. She was asleep before she knew it.

* * *

“Emma.”

“Mm no.”

“Emma, my love. You weigh a ton.”

“What?”

Emma opened her eyes. She was overly warm; perhaps it was because she was draped across Killian’s entire body, the both of them covered by a quilt. Immediately, she rolled over, not before elbowing him in the ribs for the jibe.

“What time’s it?” she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes.

“No idea. Still dark. You ought to get back to your room before it is discovered that you are missing. Don’t want your father to come charging in here pointing a sword at my head.” Emma felt a lazy grin curl her lips; she could picture it, too, her father’s face red and blustering as he glared at the two of them in bed together, innocent though it was. 

“I’m still tired,” she sighed, rolling to her side and propping herself on an elbow. “How did you sleep?”

“I don’t remember dreaming, so it must have been well.”

“Good.”

“Indeed. I…” He trailed off; it took every ounce of diplomatic training she had ever received to refrain from demanding he finish his thought. He cleared his throat and began again. “I haven’t slept as well in the last ten years as I have this past week.”

“Oh.”

“Aye. Oh.”

“Well, then.”

“Although, I must say, waking to a princess smothering me is one of the better ways I’ve--”

“Why did you stay?” she blurted. _Oh, well done, Emma_ , she thought with chagrin, closing her eyes and flopping on her back next to him. _So much for diplomacy._

“Because your mother asked?” he responded, sounding groggy and confused.

“No, I mean...oh, never mind. I’ll just return to my bed now.” She made to get up but he reached out to press her back down. That was when she noticed he was not wearing anything on his left arm. “Have you been using the same brace I had made for you all those years ago?”

“I saw no reason to get a new one. Besides,” and here he cleared his throat before continuing. “It was, uh.” He plunged his hand into the hair at the back of his neck, the hairs on his arm tickling her nose with the movement. “It was all I had to remember you by.”

“Did you ever think of me?” She didn’t know whether to be thankful for or embarrassed by her seeming lack of subtlety in her still-sleepy state.

“Every day that I was gone.”

“Oh, well. Good. Yes, good,” she said, at an utter loss as to what else there was to say.

“I did not think it so great at times,” he said lightly, but she heard strain in his voice. She wished she could see his face; it reminded her of those nights back on his ship before she’d known who he was. Speaking truths to each other in the cloak of night. 

“I tried not to think of you, too,” she told him. “It got easier when I married, and then there was Henry, and then Neal died, and…”

“Did you love him?” Killian interrupted. 

“In a way,” she said, knowing that it was true. She _had_ loved Neal, but it was nothing like...well, it was nothing like she thought it ought to be. “I think I came to care for him, but then he was gone, and then I tried not to think on it too much. Does that sound awful?”

“Not at all,” he said softly. Then, “Why did you not remarry?”

_Because I wished to marry for love and you were not here._

“I had no interest in it.”

“I see.”

“Killian?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you here?”

His long pause nearly killed her.

“Because that’s where you are.”

“But your crew, your ship…”

“Emma,” he said softly, his voice so earnest that it near stole her breath. “I’d give all of that up for you. I--you see, I am rather in love with you.”

Well, then.

Emma rose from the bed, making her way to the door. Because he had nearly killed her with his pause, she thought it might not be too terrible to make him sweat it out a little. But instead of leaving, she reached out for a little table next to the door, feeling around until she found the drawer on the side. She opened it, reached in, and pulled out a fresh candle, and a flint. Working quickly, she had it lit in no time; she carried it back to the bed and set it down on the table next to Killian’s questioning gaze.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I want to see you when I do this.” Without further word, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.

This time when they kissed, it was gentle, and it was lovely. He breathed into her the instant their lips touched before capturing her mouth with his own, his thumb coming up to caress the cleft in her chin. Then he wrapped his arms around her back, his one hand curling around her shoulder and pulling her down to him until she fell across his chest with a muffled _oof_.

“I’m rather in love with you, as well,” she told him. She looked into his eyes and saw wonder there, wonder and a simmering sort of heat. He nodded and she watched his throat bob several times, her eyes caressing his face and landing on his lips. His tongue darted out as he licked his lower lip, and that was all it took. 

Her hands began to explore, starting at his shoulders and trailing up his neck. As she opened her mouth and swept her tongue across his lips, his entire form stiffened before tensing in a glorious way, the hard ridges and lines along his body at once sharp and soft against hers. Her fingers found his jaw and raked through his beard, causing a moan to rumble deep in his chest. 

“Emma,” he mumbled against her mouth. She took the opportunity to sweep her tongue against his, moaning herself when he returned the favor. “Gods, you’re--”

She nipped at his lower lip, pulling it between her teeth then dropping her jaw wide before dipping back in. She wanted to _consume_ him.

She became frenzied, her hands wanting to touch and touch and grab. She sat up, her legs sprawled on either side of him, her hips pushing down until she felt his hardness slide in place between her thighs.

Reaching down, she grasped the edges of her night rail and pulled it over her head, looking down to meet his heated gaze.

“Perfect,” he whispered. He reached out with his hand, hesitating as it hovered over her breast. With an impatient huff, she pressed her hand on his, closing her eyes at the sensation of his warm skin touching her. She opened her eyes, reaching for his other wrist and bringing it to the other side.

“You overwhelm me,” he told her, his eyes trained on his left arm as it brushed against the side of her breast.

“And you annoy me. Killian, I am naked and on top of you. Will you not...do something about it?”

It was then that she saw why his crew was so quick to obey. His eyelids drooped, his eyes hooded and heated as he raked her from her head down to her knees. There was something commanding in the way he did it, something that told her this was not a man to be trifled with; a thrill went through her. She’d known Killian before he’d become a hardened man, and now she knew him as that very same man--a confident Captain, certain of what he wanted.

She no longer doubted that what he wanted was her.

He squeezed her breast with his hand before pulling his touch away, his thumb tracing light circles across her nipple in a way that sent thrills to where she was undulating slowly, back and forth, back and forth, tendrils of awareness coursing up and down and between her legs. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the feeling of him beneath her.

“Ah, ah,” he tutted, tweaking her nipple sharply, enough to make her eyes pop back open. “You said you wished to see me. Well, now, I wish to see you when I do this.” With that, his hand dropped down to where she was rubbing against him, his fingers parting her flesh.

He watched her carefully and she did not break the eye contact, not even when his fingers encountered her hot, wet flesh. She gasped, leaning back to grant him better access, her arms propped behind her as she attempted to keep her balance.

“Eager,” he called her. It was on the tip of her tongue to retort but then she forgot what she was going to say as his fingers slid down, teasing along the slit of her until they rested just out of reach of where she wanted him to be.

“Up,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I want to feel you against me.”

“Yes, Captain,” she breathed, quickly dismounting to sit at his side. Drawing her lip between her teeth, she watched him carefully as he climbed around her and stood at the side of the bed, the dim glow of the candle doing wonderful things to his body. Emma watched as he reached behind his neck to grasp his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift movement. Then he was shucking out of his pants, and her eyes widened--first, because he was not wearing any smalls, and second because, well. He seemed bigger than he’d felt when she was gyrating against him.

Then she noticed the scars on his body, some she remembered as wounds he’d sustained when he’d lost his hand. She sat up on her knees, reaching out to trace along a particularly long one across his ribs before placing her palms on his sides and turning him around.

“Inspecting the goods, milady?” His laughter rumbled softly into the dark. 

She traced along the long healed-over wound on his back, gasping at the old lash marks there. She hadn’t seen those in the hospital all those years ago, but they looked much older than the sword slash. Her fingers were light, almost hesitant as she touched them, and she felt sorrow for whatever he’d lived through to receive such an enduring reminder of a rough life.

“I can tell you about them, if you like.”

“Later,” she said, swallowing her sorrow for his troubled past in favor of focusing on what was before her. “Come to me.”

He nodded before turning, his profile lit in stunning detail as he faced her. She took a moment to appreciate him, his surface beauty, enhanced by the person he was. Emma was amazed to discover that she had no trepidation, no hesitation; only anticipation. She wanted this, wanted him. It was that simple. She’d lost him all those years ago, and she’d be damned if she would allow that to happen again.

She laid back on the bed, trying to inject trust in her face as he gazed down at her.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully as he knelt on the bed with one knee between her splayed legs, “you have a glow.”

“A glow?” she replied, shaking her head as she smiled. She could not seem to contain her smiles; it was a heady feeling, hearing him speak like this. 

“Aye, a glow. It was the first thing I noticed about you. The first time I saw you, you had your cloak draw over your head as you visited with the nuns, and it looked as if you floated, you were that graceful. When you turned and I could see your face, the way the light hit it, there was a glow. It’s why I thought I had died--surely, an angel walked amongst us.” Emma laughed, delighted at his fanciful notions. “No, really; but you see, my angel-lady Emma, Crown Princess of Misthaven, I was not wrong. You saved me then. And I was hardly the only one.” He leaned down and kissed her with such reverence that she almost believed his words; the way he described her, the way he looked at her--she certainly _felt_ divine. “You are my savior, Emma. I have done nothing to deserve this, but I’m enough of a blackguard to take it all the same.”

“Take all you like,” she whispered against his mouth. His breathing quickened, rough and fast; he was hovering above her, the hairs on his chest brushing against her bare skin. The contrast of rough against soft was exquisite. She squeezed down on the insistent pulsing inside, wondering if he was going to keep drawing it out or just _fuck_ her already.

“Oh, I shall,” he said to her lips. He brushed his nose against hers, tilting his head to kiss at the corner of her mouth. He leaned down further with the movement, coming to rest on his left elbow, shifting his legs to accommodate himself against her body. “I am selfish but smart; I shan’t squander such a gift.” 

“Stop talking.”

“All right,” he grinned. He reached up to brush the tips of three fingers across her mouth, his lips following along in the wake of it. He continued tracing across her cheek, his mouth remaining to kiss her, his fingers toying with her ear, brushing down her neck, his mouth then opening as he began to devour her. Long, lush sweeps of his tongue, fingers trailing down her neck, stopping to brush across her collarbone, going down to her breast, fingertips catching her nipple but not lingering, continuing down her ribs slowly, torturously, his thumb brushing her navel and pausing to swirl there, his other fingers swirling in an arc then pointing down as they continued their path to the source of her ache, the place where she throbbed, the wetness she knew that collected there.

Emma grew impatient for his touch, grew consumed with a fire that she wished for him to tease to flame. He began to make these sounds, hungry, desperate sounds, increasing in pitch as she began to undulate her hips toward his fingers. She broke away from his kiss, about to demand he touch her, but he sealed her mouth with his, his tongue demanding entrance the exact moment his fingers finally slid through her damp flesh, plunging right into her and robbing her of breath.

He seemed to process just how wet and warm she was, an anguished sort of groan rumbling into her mouth as he pressed into her deeper, first the tip of one finger and then two and perhaps three, she did not know, she was too consumed with sensation, too undecided whether to focus on consuming him in return or meeting his thrusting fingers with demanding hip thrusts of her own. 

“Emma,” he gasped, breaking for much-needed air. “You are so--”

“Wet,” she groaned, lifting her knees and spreading them to the sides as she pushed up to her toes. 

“Warm,” he agreed, going in for another kiss. He gentled his lips but not his hand, pulling his fingers from her and running his entire hand along the seam of her, continuing in this fashion, his hand flat and running along her flesh, the tips of his fingers catching at her entrance but not quite entering. 

“Killian,” she begged breathily. She lifted one hand to grasp at the back of his neck, pulling none-too-gently at the ends of his hair curled there. “I need you. I need you now.”

“I need you always,” he countered, grinning when she rolled her eyes, and not in ecstasy.

“Would you please--”

“As you wish, my princess.”

He removed his hand and sat up on his knees, taking a moment to rake her body over in another heated gaze before climbing over her spread legs and positioning himself exactly where she wanted him. He smiled at her, and it was a gentle, reassuring smile, one filled with faith. She marveled for a moment then; looking at Killian look at her with such love, she thought for one brief second that she _must_ be wonderful for such a man to look at her in such a way.

Then the blackguard slithered off the bed, quick as lightning, his arms sliding underneath her thighs as he lifted her up to his face and he...he kissed her, right where she was wanting.

She cried out; she could not help it. He kissed her like he would kiss her mouth, lips and tongue working together and sliding over her slick, heated flesh.

“Better than I imagined,” he whispered, briefly coming up for air before once again consuming her with abandon. And the _sounds_ he was making. Soft, moaning sounds. Terse grunts of ecstasy. Wet, wonderful sounds as he licked and kissed and sucked. She began to feel a build, a light, tremulous feeling, like she was glowing from within and threatening to burst.

“Killian,” she gasped, reaching for his head and grasping his hair to pull him from her. “Please.”

“Yeah, all right,” he breathed. He dropped her legs and stood, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then he was lowering himself to her, his hand and wrist balanced near her shoulders, his hips sliding with hers, his hard length smoothing along her wetness. She closed her eyes when she felt him press against her and opened them again as he began to enter.

“Breathe,” he told her. _Smug bastard_ , she thought to herself, but he was right to be smug; it wasn’t painful, but it had been a while, and he was a bit on the large side. 

Then he was inside of her, and she forgot what she’d been thinking about. She was full, and she was happy. Good, it felt so good having him inside her and above her. He bent his head down to lock his lips with hers, and then he began to move. She sighed, delighting in the wicked taste of herself on his tongue, her lips capturing his with each thrust, his tongue touching hers every time he pressed deeper and deeper. She shifted slightly and her breath caught; there, oh, there. He seemed to sense the change in her, pulling his head back and looking into her eyes. Whatever he saw there seemed to make him more determined; he began to thrust in earnest, and as she felt the tell-tale flutter deep inside, she helped it along by squeezing her internal muscles, her breath catching as he caught a particularly good spot and then she was soaring, her hands scrabbling to find a spot to hold, one curling around his neck and one at his shoulder as he--he-- _yes_ , she whispered. Yes. Yes. Yes. And he was there, and he was gasping against her mouth, and he was pulsing within her. _Yes_.

Emma let out a deep breath, laughing a little as he continued to move against her, softly, almost as if without being aware. His eyes were shut tight, and as she came out of her thought-free state, she realized she was still clutching him, and tightly, at that. She eased her grip, only aware as her eyes came into focus that he was shaking.

“Are you cold?” she asked, somewhat surprised that her voice was so husky.

“No,” he said tightly. Wincing, he pulled away from her, the tickle as he disengaged himself near unbearable but delightful all the same. Killian rolled away and flopped to his back, his chest heaving as he lifted his arms above his head. And then he began to laugh.

“You’re laughing? Killian, are you quite all right?” She was puzzled; not hurt, not amused; merely confused. He moved his left wrist to cover his eyes, continuing to chuckle.

“Emma,” he said the moment before she reached for a pillow to swat at his head. “Emma. We--we did _that_.”

“Was it not--?”

He removed his wrist and looked at her with horror. “Gods, no. Oh, Emma, darling. It was utterly sublime. Perfect, if I may be so bold. No, it’s just…” He rolled to his side and lifted to one elbow, leaning over to kiss her nose. “Emma. You’re a princess, heir to this vast kingdom. And I’m a--”

“Successful smuggler essential to the welfare of that very kingdom,” she said with hauteur, daring him to contradict her. He lifted an eyebrow and grinned.

“That I am. But you’re still a princess, and I just--”

“Fucked me proper?”

“I am shocked, shocked that you would say such a thing.” This time she did give into the urge to swat him with a pillow. “Hey! What I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted,” he grinned, “is that I...came inside of you. Inside of the princess. I came inside the crown princess of Misthaven.”

“Oh,” she said, realization setting in. She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Do you think--”

“I don’t know,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “I’m sorry, I--well, I think I’m not fully awake, so I didn’t think to--”

“Killian,” she said seriously, though she could feel a twinkle in her eye. “My father is going to have your head if you’ve gotten me with child.”

“Your father,” he groaned, flopping back down on the bed. “He’s going to kill me. I--I just fucked his daughter.”

“His daughter the princess,” she pointed out.

“Do you suppose he’ll be kinder if I tell him that you seduced me?”

“I do not. He’s the greatest swordsman in all the realms, you know.”

“I can hold my own.”

“My mother would stop you with several arrows to the heart.”

“Ah, but you possess that heart, my lady,” he said, reaching for her hand. He pressed a kiss to it and looked at her with a solemn expression. “She cannot pierce it without wounding you as well.” 

Emma felt warmed by his words; she hardly knew what to say except for, “I love you.”

“And I, you.”

“It’s settled, then.” She rose with a groan, climbing over him and standing at the side of the bed. She bent over to pick up her night rail, scrambling into it and turning to him with a smile.

“What’s that?”

“It’s time, Captain.”

“For?”

“Facing the music. I’m sure they suspect already, anyway.”

“Emma,” he said doubtfully, frowning as he watched her rake her fingers through her hair in an attempt at respectability. “They’ve known me a week, I hardly think--”

“They’ve known me their entire lives. They know that I am stubborn, and if I tell them that I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with a sea captain who fucks like a--”

“Emma!”

“Come, Killian,” she said, reaching for his hand. “If my belly starts to outgrow my dresses, they’ll find out, anyway.”

“Another princeling,” he said, not without wonder.

“Or a little princess.” It was amazing to her how much she was taking it all in stride. At the utter rightness of everything. Killian, there with her. At her side. Possibly forever.

As it turned out, there was no babe as a result of their coupling; not that time, anyway. But the queen and king of Misthaven were less than pleased that their daughter, the heiress of their kingdom, had taken to sharing a bed with a man they hardly knew. That changed with time, of course; he was a wonderful addition to their family, heralding a princess who took up her duties with utter joy and verve while learning how to run the blockade with him, her eager teacher. And Killian, while still intent on defeating the imp who had taken so much from him, well. He could hardly muster up the appropriate rage to destroy when his heart was now so intent on love rather than hate. Eventually, the Dark One _was_ defeated by the two of them, but that is a tale for another time.

And as the years passed and the details of their story were lost to legend, Killian and Emma were remembered as the dashing captain who sailed the seas with an angel (or was it princess?) at his side, living and loving and having many further adventures together.   


The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with me, you guys! i really enjoyed writing this story, and i've loved talking to you all. come say hi on tumblr: this-too-too-sullied-flesh. seeya there!


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